


Arpeggio

by JDoftheGods



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: Actual Violence Now!!, Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, M/M, Original Character(s), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Theyre not a huge part but def have some necessary roles, Threats of Violence, i just rly need to get some headcanons out before this show develops more and destroys them all LMAO, uhhhhh shit man, will add tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-03-04 16:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13368639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDoftheGods/pseuds/JDoftheGods
Summary: It's been months since Black Hat Organization was dissolved, subsidiaries and all. And Flug finds himself falling into a routine, just to keep himself sane. After all, where else is he going to go?... is he even allowed to go?





	1. Chapter 1

It was like a video out of sync - imperceptible at first, but as time went on, that subconscious perception picked at the back of your brain, a nerve-wracking awareness that something was wrong. And eventually, that liminal experience showed itself, as lips spoke outside of their words.

If anything, even after all his years of living with the physical embodiment of misfortune, the feeling could drive Dr. Flug Slys to insanity. It was that precise, fuzzy feeling, but, God, he did his best to keep himself in check regardless. When the mansion sunk into a state of dull obliqueness, even for its usual state, he continued to rise early in the morning, often to the mute sounds of complete silence. He ignored the eyes of paintings that followed him down the kitchen, aware of the constant tabs that were kept on him. So long as he wasn’t doing anything he shouldn’t, he’d learned to not be concerned. He just kept on his path with fumbling, sliding steps, stretching and yawning as he adjusted the wrinkled paper bag over his bleary eyes and tousled, matted hair. 

As he enters the kitchen, he’s greeted by a familiar, elongated hiss. In the first few months, his spine had instinctively snapped in response - the survival instinct of natural prey, alert and primed for the reaction of flight. Though, he found this didn’t always work, and he had the scars to prove it. Despite all odds, he was still alive. In time, as the venom began to dilute and the immunity took effect, his spine began to slack, and he began to respond with a tired, apologetic “yes, sir” instead before putting the kettle to boil.

God, did he begin fear to consider that his complacency would have horrific consequences. True to his fears, the first, most present signs that something was off was the way that those echoed snarls had seemed to quiet down into vague, chattering growls. However, if he convinced himself fully of this adjustment, a final snap could be, admittedly, the inevitable end of Dr. Flug.

In nix of a proper solution, he relied on the great, all-powerful, psychological power of coping mechanisms -- of which he used to ignore the sinking suspicion of the harmful effects because, hey, he was a scientist, not a psychiatrist. What did he know? He kept his mouth shut, his thoughts numbed on a separate, happily disassociated layer. He poured two separate pots of tea - a dark, strong-bodied Earl Grey for himself and a lighter, herbal Belladonna for the Master of the House. This morning ritual alone woke him up more effectively than the caffeine had, urging his mind desperately to pay attention, in fear that it might not someday and in a tragic case of autopilot, accidentally mix up the two pots.

Alternatively, he also kept his own Earl Grey sweet and let Black Hat drink his tea first, trusting that the Being’s sensitive pallet meant he would voice his disgust before any tragic mistakes were made. Also, of course, being the practical man he was, a bottle of Pilocarpine was always kept near the sugar as a last resort. 

Ten steps aside, efficient as always. 

( _ God, how long had he been working here? Was this really normal instinct…? _ )

Black Hat was always,  _ always _ awake before him. Flug had yet to figure out if this was because he was an early riser or if he simply did not sleep. Either way, he could be found every morning at the dining table, head already buried in a newspaper. They did not speak until Flug gave him his tea, after which he grumbled something that could have been interpreted as thankful. Just as he had been doing the last few months, Flug did not await further instruction, instead starting immediately on breakfast. 

The fridge provided a skinned carcass of some sort of beast, unidentifiable to him. He took it out and cut into it without question, frying it up in oil, seasoned with a light sprinkle of salt and pepper. He’d serve this with a side of eggs, over easy. Hunched over the stove, he pretended not to hear the rising noises of complaint from his employer, until he’d made it explicitly clear he wanted them to be heard, with a roar that resembled the doctor’s name.

“... Sir?” with a minor tremble in his voice, Flug responded, unsure if the anger was directly related to him or if he was simply the chosen vessel into which it would be siphoned.

“Are you listening to a word I say, or does that stupid bag block your ears?! Did you see the paper?!”

…it was still unclear which one it was, but Black Hat was positively seething. Flug had, in fact, not seen the paper, as he feared to touch the subscription at any point before or after Black Hat had gone through it. However, he had indeed read the articles while flicking listlessly through his phone, and he had semi-anticipated this. He tensed, choosing to play dumb, slowly scooping rare, semi-bloodied portions of meat onto Black Hat’s plat so that he can continue to cook his own portions to a more edible state. “I haven’t,  _ Jefecito _ . Is it good?”

“ _ Sickeningly _ ,” hissed Black Hat between his teeth. “They’re mere months from finding a cure. A few more  _ days _ , and it would have been  _ incurable _ . Years, wasted!”

…this was an uncharacteristically charitable assumption from someone who often had little hand in the research and development of his own company, outside of demands to be filled, but Flug kept his tongue in cheek, gracefully accepting the confidence. The point was moot, regardless. He had, unfortunately, been anticipating this development since his lab had been raided all those ages ago; his own disappointment had been buried already. The only concern now was soothing the rage coming to a slow boil in his boss.

There was no verbal response. He came to Black Hat’s side and held out the plate questioningly, seeing if he had anything else to say on the matter. Certainly, he did, but none of it was brought to a volume that made it clear that it was an opinion to be shared. Flug let it pass, giving a mental sigh of relief and handing Black Hat his breakfast. This time, it’s a little more clear - a bitter, mindless “thank you, doctor” before the paper promptly caught fire, ashes scattering and settling on his plate. Seasoning, Flug assumes, as Black Hat digs in with a lack of grace unbecoming of a man of such implied gentility as his attire gave. Flug finishes cooking his own breakfast with a listless apathy, pushing the mystery meat mindlessly around the pan, seasoning it until it reaches a… slightly less overpowering aroma. Black Hat has already finished his portion by the time Flug comes to sit down, staring at the meal with a rising anxiety.

“...this is edible, right,  _ Jefe _ ?”

Black Hat gives him a face when he looks up at him as though he’s an idiot. This has little difference from his normal manner of addressing anything of vague mortality, but the intention is clear and strong, showing as he gestures to his own empty plate.

Flug stares blankly back, at a loss to the response, “...it’s edible for  _ me _ , right,  _ Jefe _ …?”

He received a furrowed brow of concentration, then a dismissive shrug. Flug inhales deeply, the bag crinkling in around his face. He tentatively takes a slice, bringing it under the brim and up to his mouth, taking a tentative bite. He doesn’t like the way Black Hat continues to leer at him as he does so, but the meat doesn’t seem to have anything wrong with it, other than a strong, somewhat gamey taste, almost a little soured. Not preferable, but it was bearable.

Black Hat seems smug as Flug rolls the ends of the bag, clearing his mouth and making it easier to continue eating. It was an enjoyable enough breakfast. When Black Hat grows bored of watching the human feed, he slides from his seat, starting to walk away. Flug rushes to swallow down the bite in his mouth, only to feel immediate regret at his decision. While giving his body a moment to resist vomiting, he waves frantically at Black Hat.

“ _ J-Jefe _ , is there --  _ hrgf _ \--”

He doubles over a second, hand over his mouth, and Black Hat almost seems inconvenienced, baring his teeth irritably. He waits, nonetheless, for Flug to continue speaking. Eventually, with a few shaky breaths, Flug straightens back out, hastily rolling the bag back over his face.

“ -- is there -- what’s the plan today?”

  
  
  
  
  


…he didn’t know why he kept asking this question.

Flug doesn’t get an answer, just Black Hat sneering in his face, “The plan is that you stay out of my way today, Flug, unless you’re explicitly summoned.” He flourishes, extravagantly shooing off the scientist with irritation. “Now, may I retire to my office, or did you want to continue wasting my time? I’m not afraid to start taking my pound of flesh in compensation, Flug.” 

Flug shuddered involuntarily; he had never been stupid enough to think Black Hat wasn’t willing to back up his threats. The only surprise was whether or not he was being literal with them. He had to interrupt himself from trying to figure out what amount a pound would be, shaking off the thought. Then, when that finally faded, he instead just felt… tired. He raised his hands in defense, certainly taking a step back for his own safety, but fear was hardly his own ruling emotion, showing clearly in the tired way he responded.

“Of course,  _ Jefe _ . I’ll… I’ll be in the lab if you need me.”

This… did not seem to be the reaction Black Hat wanted. Flug swore he could see an expression of confusion cross his face for a moment, but it passed quickly. He scoffed, turning his back on Flug and lurking off. 

Flug sat back down, staring at his half-eaten meal, not particularly hungry anymore. He pushed it around his plate a bit before getting up to dump it out. He slid his phone from his lab coat pocket, checking it quickly for the time. 

It hadn’t even been an hour. The sun wasn’t even that high in the sky. He had another full, busy day of nothing to look forward to.

“Sure,” he remarked bitterly to himself. “Better get started, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> h-hey yooo!
> 
> I'll be honest, i wasn't expecting anyone to take notice of this so quick?? so i made up for my lack of preparedness and did some minor typo/aesthetic editing to the first chapter!
> 
> thank you everyone for the kudos and the couple of kind comments I got last time!! I hope you enjoy this next chapter!!

Flug had believed he had the Absolute concept of what a Living Hell looked like when Black Hat Corporation was in full swing: constant fear for his life, ridiculous deadlines, annoying coworker, a literal looming shadow that seemed omniscient of whatever he was doing.

It was… not where he had thought his life was going to go.

To be fair, neither was anything else in his life right now.

The first task he imposed upon himself was trying to figure out why he had told Black Hat he’d be in the lab. If he had to take a wild assumption, he would assume, again, ‘instinct’. Ghosted motions of the human mind on autopilot because, honestly, where else would he be? He certainly had his own room, but he had fallen asleep on his workbench enough times for the lab to truly feel like ‘home’.

However, when he actually set foot back into the workspace, the weariness that had set in began to sink itself deep into his bones.

The place was almost entirely bare. Whatever machines that still remained had been gutted, stripped of any ‘illicit’ materials or information or whatever he was sure they thought could be auctioned off at the local line auction, like some common scrap metal. A desktop computer and monitor sat askew at the work desk with pulled drawers. Flug hardly touched the thing since it had been returned, its years of data and research pulled. Flug sat himself in front of it, oddly exhausted. The chair groaned in agony, not having taken much weight in recent days.

And he… well, he sat.

For being so empty, the atmosphere here was stifling. Flug was already beginning to fidget, creaking the rolling chair back and forth, his legs folding up awkwardly into the seat. As the anxiety grew, he tried to think why he didn’t just  _ leave _ .

( _ Because he said he’d be here. Because there was nothing else to do. Because he was little more than an evolutionary constant, seeking comfort in familiarity that no longer existed. _ )

Very good points, he noted, boxing them away in the back of his mind so that they could sit in their shame and think about what they’d done. Rather stubbornly, he remained seated, pulling out his phone, resuming his attempt to stare at the same social media messages several times over the passing hour. Eventually, dust allergies got the best of him, his mouth grew harshly dry, and his nose started dripping like a leaky faucet. He awkwardly did his best to wipe it from under his bag, mostly succeeding with exception of a small, repulsive smear over his upper lip.

…okay. Analyze the facts.

Yes, he’d told Black Hat he’d be in the lab. Yes, this is surely where Black Hat would check on the rare occasion he  _ did _ need him today. No, this should not mean Flug needed to waste his entire time here ‘just in case’.

NO, this was… not a guarantee that helped Flug felt safe leaving, but, hey. If risk of personal injury had been able to stop him before, he wouldn’t be here. At the very least, he waited until that fidget in his leg made it so that he couldn’t sit still for another minute. Extracting himself from the chair was a whole other process, and one of his legs was heavy with a tingling numbness. He winced, dragging it gingerly as he went to pace the house.

It took a minute of this before he regretted talking himself into it.

The sun had grown a little higher. Flug drew one of the curtains in the library, settling into a chaise lounge and resting his upper body on the back of it to quietly watch the horizon. A bird chirped daringly, a sound Flug felt he hadn’t heard in years. It was almost enchanting.

He felt it before he happened - the inevitable shattering of this moment. When he hears that familiar hiss, his previous insubordination flashing through his mind, it kicks. That snap to attention, that numb leg, and that poor attempt to detangle himself from the chaise all combined rather poorly. The breathless attempt of address cut off into a strangled screech as Flug tried to move forward, catching onto his own limbs and feeling the singular, unique sensation of descent. He doesn’t have time to catch himself with his hands, and he swears he can feel his head bounce off the floor as he lands. Wincing, he rolls onto his back, looking reluctantly at his employer above him, who was lurking just outside of the beam of light from the window, looking… displeased.

“ _ Flug _ ,” he growled in warning. “What is  _ this _ ?”

He gestures ahead of him. Flug raises his head slowly to survey his surroundings before letting it drop again, vision swimming.

“A window,” he responded dully. He does not like the noise that procures from Black Hat, which makes something in his ears pulse painfully.

“I  **_know it’s a window_ ** !  _ Peinabombillas _ …!” He moves forward, and Flug flinches, afraid his goggles are about to be stomped to pieces.

He’s passed over, however, Black Hat grimacing as he moves towards the window. He gestures again, much stronger, much more angry. Flug pushes himself up a bit more, groaning slightly. He holds a hand to his head to keep himself grounded as he stands, staring in perplexion out the window. Even as he approaches, it’s still bewilderingly unclear what Black Hat is referring to. Flug stares for a few moments of good faith before hesitantly raising his hand in questioning.

“...Black Hat, sir…”

“The  **_S̷͘͜U͢N͢͝_ ** _ , FLU̶̶G̨ _ !” His roar echoes in the empty house, seeming to shake its foundations, one finite, wild gesture towards the celestial body. “Have you ever seen it so bright?! The damn thing is distracting; I haven’t been able to read a single word in my study! It’s distracting! Don’t you have some sort of invention to fix this?!”

His fangs gnashed, an audible grinding projecting from them, and Flug could practically see his jaws locking.

Flug stared at the sun, struck dumb. He continued staring before slowly turning to Black Hat. His hands, slow and begging to be followed by his audience’s gaze, grabbed onto the curtain he’d drawn to the side, carefully dragging it back in place before the window. That hand stilled. The other came up in a lazy, deadpan sort of jazzy wiggle.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Needless to stay, Black Hat did not seem amused.

The ‘joke’ (“A-A  _ joke _ , boss - it was -”) was horribly underappreciated for its, in Flug’s dry opinion, uproariously comedic genius. Nonetheless, it was seemingly, admittedly less and less worth it to point it out as Black Hat’s roaring lecture became more and more incomprehensible. Flug felt his soul departing as he was grabbed by the lapels, forced to stare directly at Black Hat, mentally trying to escape from this absolute catastrophe of a situation. There was an additional block of salt that wasn’t rubbed so much as  _ grafted _ onto the wound, as he managed to somewhat decipher a point about Black Hat coming to look for him and, failing to find him where he’d  _ said _ he would be, how he was forced to hunt him down. This thought came into his mind as well as some kind of bitter inquiry about finding something better to do than sit around, looking like an idiot. Eventually, it all became too pointless to even try to understand, and Flug found himself just… taking it. No reaction, no regret. Just… apathy.

Eventually, Black Hat ran out of things to scream. He trailed, gravely snarling and sputtering out what sounded like some repeated words before coming to an abrupt halt. He stared down Flug, beginning to settle to a simmer, his breath becoming heavy from exertion. Flug waited again to see if he had anything else to say.

“...so you… you wanted what from me,  _ Jefe _ ?”

Black Hat’s mouth snapped back open, as if to pick up once again from where he’d last left off. Then, suddenly, his mouth slowly began to close, perplexion clear in his eye and brow while nothing came out. His jaw tensed again, and he finally released his lackey.

He pulled the curtain aside once more, hissing " _ fix it _ " before snapping it closed a final time and striding off. Flug remains mentally removed from the situation until Black Hat is out of sight - at which point he promptly  _ loses his shit _ .

His breathing starts to quicken, and after a few lightheaded wheezes, he brings up his hands, pulling at his hair through the bag, evidently making a crinkling mess. Was he an  _ idiot _ ?! Why wasn't he  _ DEAD _ right now?!?

He rides out the anxiety attack, curling into the chaise lounge, on the edge of passing out before he brings his breathing to a much more level state. After a few deep breaths, he slumps, boneless.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Artistic Licensing' means I can reinterpret Black Hat Manor to my needs bite me what kind of house has almost 9 stories in height and only 5 windows
> 
> aesthetic my ass

The best way to get to the root of a problem was to get in close and analyze it so that you can better conjure a solution. This was proving somewhat difficult, considering the problem in this particular case was, in no addressable specifics, the  _ sun _ , a fact that Flug strained to mentally continue repeating to himself in the hopes it would magically become a bit more sensible.

Flug went outside for a closer look. It was a relatively nice day; the skies were clear, likely somewhat attributing to the absolutely pointless errand Black Hat had decided to beset upon his employee. Shielding his eyes with one hand, Flug squinted up at it, at least pretending to be doing something productive while questioning what he was doing with his life.

He decided the best place to start would be not with direct action against the sun but rather against its relationship to the mansion. He turned back towards the building, a once imposing figure on the suburban neighborhood that surrounded it.

It looked as quiet as it had begun to feel these days. Little had changed about the actual architecture, but its lack of residents or activity lately was rather obvious. From the corner of his eye, Flug saw a woman walking her dog just outside of the gates, albeit with a small, nervous burst of speed once she saw him. This drew a wry but nervous chuckle from Flug. He wasn’t exactly a menacing figure. Reputation seemed to count for something after all.

With a little bit of mental gymnastics and counting under his breath over the stories and windows, Flug managed to find Black Hat’s study. True, it was on the side of the building directly facing the current position of the sun, but other than that, Flug could find little reason why it would be irritating his boss so specifically on this day.

The next logical step would be to analyze from the study, but Flug gave understandable pause to this idea.

It was already a near miracle he was alive right now, with all limbs attached and all blood and organs present and accounted for, the exception of one [1] kidney, long ago sacrificed for unrelated Science. He felt it would be tempting fate to ruin such a nice day by heading to the study while Black Hat still occupied it. On the other hand, he would also almost certainly be in worse trouble for not putting his best foot forward in his work.

In a flight of fancy, he began to delightedly conjure ideas of how he could solve this with all his resources and budgets. Almost certainly Black Hat’s initial assignment would have been a little more hackneyed - a horrifically simplified solution that Flug could imagine vividly. Bothered by the sun? Block it out. Bring your foes to their knees. It’s an amusing idea, but when Flug starts trying to figure out how he would have gone about it, he has to stop himself. Not a good path to wander down. Too much disappointment.

His excitement dying back down, Flug sighs to himself, resigning to the inevitable. Really, all this had been was a meager attempt to avoid what had to be done. He goes back into the house, slumping towards the study.

It was certainly not a matter of not being allowed in Black Hat’s space. Far from it, in fact - with exception. His bedroom had been the only thing Flug had never laid eyes on, and he faltered in dread to the mere consideration of crossing that line. Certainly, he’d been in the study plenty of times for demonstrations, briefings, debriefings and the like. No, it was many other things. It was the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he was summoned there formally.

…well. Were he to think hard enough, he could bring up several times, in a skewed, fuzzy timeline of their exact separation from each other. Nonetheless, this only exacerbated the issue. While there was no quite such thing as ‘good’ memories of the experience, the last few had certainly been rather far on the more bleak end of the spectrum.

The study had become the epicenter of the quiet, hollow dissatisfaction that Flug had begun to broodingly associate with his own home - the beginning of a fault line, spreading an immense fracture and threatening to swallow Dr. Flug in the growing chasm.

Well, that was...unnecessarily bleak.

Flug’s gaze had gone hazy as that particularly poignant imagery dug its claws into his brain. He did his best to shake them, not enjoying the light-headed numbness overtaking his face, like it was fading into nothingness or he was haphazardly walking on clouds, terrified of tumbling down to the earth below. Nevermind that. Bottle it up; forget it for now.

When he came relatively to his senses, he was standing at the threshold of his destination.

A sobering scene greeted him. Black Hat was indeed inside, but his back was turned, not yet seeming to have taken notice of Flug. He was facing -- strangely enough -- the window.

The window seemed fine. The red tint did its usual job at filtering the light that did come into the room. The curtains were drawn, which would imply that Black Hat was not bothered by it to the point of needing to completely block it out. While Flug hesitated to be the one to call his boss out on his hypocrisy, he still had the partial free will to question why he was being set to task like this over a seemingly nonexistent problem. He resisted the urge to rub his own temples in incredulous frustration and decided, for now, he’d just… observe to see if he could get a glimpse of Black Hat’s exact scheme in setting up the markers for this wild goose chase.

It was an innocent idea at a glance. Within the first minute, he becomes aware that he doesn’t often get much chance to observe Black Hat.

In practice, it was…

The first word that came to mind was underwhelming. The use of the word was because, as he watched, Black Hat did exactly nothing. He sat, hands folded, gaze seeming to be set upon the floor with an inexplicable intensity. Then, the longer Flug watched, the more it became uncomfortable, like this was something he shouldn’t have been allowed to see. There was something to Black Hat’s posture that felt...

Several words here passed through Flug’s head, and he didn’t like any of them. ‘Vulnerable’ came the loudest, but it was oxymoronic and wrong to combine that with a concept like Black Hat. It made it very hard for Flug to take that last step, not wanting to transcend into this territory.

He watched Black Hat for another minute or so, and when, still, nothing happened, he retreated quietly. When he was out of the doorway, he thought he could hear him rising from his chair, as if he’d been waiting, but he didn’t take the risk of checking to see if his suspicions were correct.

The rest of the day was spent in isolation with the knowledge that tomorrow would not move forward but would only start the cycle again. Flug’s tired eyes were a lock to the absolute, crushing apathy that a fact like that could only strengthen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, these last few chapter could have gone into one. But I have no regrets!
> 
> next chapter might take awhile! continued thanks to everyone that's been reading along so far!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO THAT TOOK LONGER THAN I THOUGHT. But I hope you all enjoy!!

When the sun rose the next morning, it was without complaint from Black Hat. Flug awoke. Another morning, another day, another carcass. He cooks in absolute silence, and this is somehow worse than the usual sounds of chittering, snarling, and begrudging ‘thanks’ that he had panicked to decode before. He makes tea and receives little more than a small grunt that could just as easily have been a reaction to something in the daily paper. Then, again, silence.

Flug wondered, with a skittish sort of panic flowing through him, if this was punishment. A very new sort of punishment, if so, but punishment all the same. It made him squirm in reflection of his recent lack of results that were surely the cause. Or -- he felt the blood drain from his face at this thought - it was for Flug’s intrusion into the  _ clearly _ private moment that Black Hat had been holding in his study. Had he noticed?

A stupid question. Of course he noticed. Black Hat knew  _ everything _ that happened in the Manor, whether it be from some form of security system (though none that currently existed were under his control) or the terrifying likelihood that omniscience and omnipotence went hand-in-hand. Either way, Flug had seen something he shouldn’t have, and surely, Black Hat was giving him the cold shoulder while surmising appropriate payback. Shuddering, Flug decides he’d like to hope for the best and not call forth too much attention.

Breakfast went without eye contact. Flug’s gaze glued themselves resolutely to the plate, and Black Hat’s eyes were blocked by the morning paper. His hands remained in sight on both sides of the unfolded issue, but Flug can see his head constantly dipping, his posture slouching, leaning closer to the table. Flug slowed in his own eating, his mouth going slack with intermittent chewing while he focused on the other. He himself began leaning lower to the side -- lower, lower, getting a peek behind the flimsy barrier of Black Hat trying deliberately to keep his eye on the current article, teeth gnashing and chomping to try and graze food from his plate and his tongue prodding and slithering to assist.

How… needlessly complicated.

Curiosity equal parts sated and provoked, he intends to straighten back into his seat. Gravity says otherwise, though, as he hears the low squeal of his chair, tipping a little too far into his lean. The teetering of the leg’s edge set off his balance, and Flug tumbled onto the floor, hands scrabbling for purchase on the table’s edge, only to push it away in a groaning slide. Black Hat curses in something that Flug is unable to identify as either English or Spanish just as something shatters, followed by the sound of liquid sloshing onto the kitchen floor. Flug lands, and a ringing pain makes his vision blur, the kitchen tile much less forgiving than carpet. He can catch fuzzy shards of color scattered across the floor, matching Black Hat’s teapot. Much more clear is the writhing, expanding mass of midnight black that is hissing at him like a particularly agitated wildcat.

“...sorry,  _ Jefecito _ ,” Flug murmurs anxiously, blindly, preparing for these to be the last words he’ll ever say. It was a good run, altogether. A little terrible near the end, but good. “I-I’ll get you a new one?”

The screams of dying stars and the rising whispers of the damned filled every inch of Flug’s head. He resisted curling helplessly in on himself but allowed the terrified shuddering to wrack his body, along with the sweet nihilistic bliss that it gave him. Eventually, the voices began to fade to a slow, remnant of an echo, just within earshot. Flug was being tugged harshly to his feet, held in place as his own jellied legs refused to provide support. He never learned how to build a tolerance to this particular phenomena, only how to let it happen, how to let it pass. Usually, Black Hat leaves him to it, presumably getting a laugh at the display.

He soon realizes that this time, he’s being spoken to. To his ears, it doesn’t sound like much more than an angry, busy drone in his ears. He’s not even yet in full faculty of his bodily movements, yet he begins stammering out meaningless apologies, panicking to find the right combination of groveling and appeasement that will stop Black Hat from committing whatever it is he has in mind. By the time he trails to a close, he finds that all else was silent - including Black Hat himself, who surely gathered by Flug’s mindless babbling that his words were passing directly over the doctor. Flug was close enough that he could feel the stagnant breath exhaling past rows of jagged teeth that were visible through the dark grimace. His reflection glints in the monocle on Black Hat’s left eye. He’s close enough now that it doesn’t look right, doesn’t seem to pop out enough, but he can see the glint, glassy, scrying --

He seems calmer but still has ever the countenance of an alert predator. Flug’s lips seal entirely shut, waiting for him to speak again, and his patience is quickly rewarded.

“Flug,” he growls, with a rough deliberation. “Do you fear me?”

“Do I…?” Flug squeaks out, and he’s quickly jostled by hands that hold him like shackles. Black Hat snarls, before repeating himself.

“Do you  _ FEAR ME _ , Dr. Flug?!”

Of course he did. He’d feared him since he’d first laid eyes on the Being. He’d feared him since he’d first seen what he could do to him, should he truly decide that he was sick of his presence. And yet... he’d stayed. And yet... he’d adjusted. And yet…

“Is this about the sun?” shrilled Flug, nervously.

Black Hat’s eyes narrowed, and he quickly released the doctor. Flug nearly fell back onto his head, tile squealing underneath him as he falls into a split and scrabbles back up to catch himself. He barely catches the swish of Black Hat’s coat as he rounds the corner, exiting the kitchen.

Rubbing the back of his head sorely, Flug’s thoughts swim to make sense of that odd dismissal. He tries a slow step forward, and his foot skids forward a few more feet, body straining to follow. Again, he has to catch himself.  

_ Right _ . The tea.

As puzzled as he is, he lets Black Hat be. He works first on sweeping up the ceramic shards carefully, even with his gloves. When he gets the majority of it, he lays down towels to sop up the tea. He hasn’t even finished his breakfast, but he dumps the cold food in the trash anyway when he’s done, not finding himself particularly hungry any longer.

~*~

Leaving the house was… a task. Not impossible, but a task.

The first step was getting onto a small log that was  _ required _ to remain open on his laptop at all times. There, he needed to enter his reason for leaving, as well as the time of departure. This then also required several fingerprints and an ocular scan.

When it was confirmed that he was whom he said and not a *particular* housemate in disguise, he had to log the tracking of said housemate’s exact location in the Manor. Once upon a time, this had in turn required cameras. This was until it was found that the closer the cameras got to Black Hat’s room, the less likely they were to work. Plus, the demon had a nasty habit of tearing them down when he felt they were being too nosy. Eventually, the costs seemed to have outweighed the constant need for repair, and they opted instead for a small tracking device, implanted somewhere on the entity.

Flug did not enjoy using the thing and, in fact, refused to unless absolutely required. Many of his loyalties lay no deeper than fear. However, this particular one was practically in his bloodstream. It flooded him with guilt when he opened the surveillance map to find the small, blinking light. He didn’t know where they had managed to put the device that Black Hat couldn’t remove it through some form of shapeshifting. Wherever it was, its placement had been careful, methodical.

When Flug lay in his bed at night, he was still often haunted, his mind back to being locked out of his own lab-turned impromptu surgical room, listening to the most… inhuman, unworldly scream of a beast in the throes of the most horrific pain it had ever felt.

Shaking himself from the flashback, Flug returned to the task at hand. Black Hat was usually found in one of two places: the blinking dot frantic as he paced in the study, or he was in the general area that Flug understood to be his room. Today, he did the former, in the library for a change of scenery, likely because he knew Flug would be leaving on an errand. He’d most likely remain there until Flug returned, assured he wouldn’t need to be out for blood, should his employee go M.I.A.

With Black Hat pinged and Flug as ready to go as he’d ever be, he goes through a few more identity checks at the gate as well. He’s almost bitterly surprised this particular rigamarole wasn’t invited by Black Hat Corporation. Sometimes, Heroes could be truly evil when they really tried.

While he waits for everything to process, he looks over his shoulder at the feeling of being watched. He can just barely catch the surly stare of Black Hat just outside of the window’s face, focused on him unblinkingly. Flug waves at him, in a small attempt at assurance - ‘be back soon’. He can practically hear the angered, bestial noises coming from Black Hat’s curled lips. The gate beeps, informing him that he’s finally allowed out, a privilege he takes with gusto, breathing a sigh of relief as he swings the gate open.

Flug always enjoys the first few moments or so of getting out. He takes his time, dressed in somewhat more casual wear, with a thin overcoat instead of the lab wear and winter gloves instead of the rubber. Of course, he’s still in his signature cover. The farther from the Manor he gets, though, the less people avoid him on principle. Not that they don’t continue to stare as he nervously shuffles to the nearest superstore. Only that they don’t try as hard to make it obvious. He makes a beeline for the kitchen goods, already desperate to get away.

Flug… doesn’t really like people. Actively branding yourself as a Villain doesn’t tend to mean you’re particularly good with humanity, and, while Flug’s motivations aren’t in quite the same vein as the active malice his employer held, he’s still in an alignment that finds a distaste for society as both a concept and practice. No place reminds him of that more than a retail business. The gloves and the bag provided a necessary layer between himself and everyone else. Plus, the added benefit of people giving him plenty clearance, as though the sickness lay in him rather than their poisoned masses helped. He fidgeted in place, looking at his teapot choices so that he could hurry and go.

This was harder than it sounded. It turned out big-box stores, for all their convenience, did not particularly cater to centuries-old Beings with an unquenchable thirst for the souls of the innocent.

What they had were some lovely glass pots for blooming teas (too fragile, no), novelty pots in the shape of fishes (too….), the Wicked Witch of the West (uh…?), and a phone box (no……).

The metallic ones were too plain, Black Hat would surely rather eat it than accept the gift. Flug wondered if the botanical print ones were sophisticated enough to work or if he’d be the one to eat it if he brought it home. Some of the cast-iron ones looked the best, but Flug immediately envisioned the worst case scenarios of them being flung in his direction. While not something he’d known Black Hat to do specifically with teapots, he did not want to present the temptation to start.

This left him with a rather poor selection of plain ceramic pots in a few, bland colors.

Snapping a picture on his phone, he sent them to Black Hat.

**Will these do?**

He looked around absentmindedly, foot tapping rapidly until he hears the ring of a reply.

**theyre horrendous flug are you even trying**

About the reply he’d expected.

**That’s… not fair, Necesito. It’s either these or the ones shaped like chickens.**

(Why was there  _ always _ one shaped like a chicken…? Was this a common kitchen decor theme he was unaware of…?)

He doesn’t notice the autocorrection until a minute after he’s sent the text, and hastily mashes a correction.

**jegecito JEFCETO**

Black Hat’s start of a reply comes to an absolute standstill. Flug hears nothing. He sits on the floor, head in his hands in an attempt to hold himself together. An employee started to approach him, as if to offer help, but they slowed, deciding against it and nervously speaking into a walkie-talkie. Flug’s minutely lingering sanity is saved eventually by another ring, which he fumbles with the phone to check.

**the glass one in the corner**

He takes a moment to realize he means the corner of the photo. Flug remains sitting, looking back and forth between the photo and the shelf to figure out which one he means. Eventually, he finds it. The ‘Half-Moon’ teapot: a glass pot with a black handle and base, obscuring half of it in its titular design. Not what he would have picked but… fitting. He looks at the box and finds it contains a few samples of the flowering teas. The descriptors called the set ‘trendy’, which Flug nervously laughs at, trying to imagine any insinuation of relation between the term and his boss.

His heart is still racing. He breathes deep to bring it down and rises to his feet, walking to the counter with Black Hat’s new teapot. It’s not too expensive, leaving little strain on their deeply decreased budget. The walk home after felt long. Flug stops to pick up some small groceries, eventually in view of the gates once more. Scans, confirmations, micromanagements, and other nuisances later, and he’s finally walking back in, dropping everything onto the kitchen table. He looks around. Silence greets him.

“ _ Jefecito _ …?”

No response. He’s no longer in the library, it seems. Flug doesn’t yet feel up to hunting him down, so he works on organizing the kitchen as he puts away the groceries. Not that there’s much to organize, but it’s something to do.

When that’s done, he waits. Waits for acknowledgment, for criticism, for Black Hat to make any kind of follow-up to the oddity of the morning. But... nothing comes. Eventually, the natural light outside begins to dim. With a sigh, Flug retires to his room.

The study door seems shut, and as he passes, he sees a small sliver of light between the door and the frame. Flug hesitates, reaching his hand out… but he can’t gather the courage to follow through. He continues walking.

Maybe he should work on some sort of shade tomorrow. An awning, perhaps, or some thicker curtains. He’ll have to see if he feels pressed to bother when the day comes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY! Sorry this one took so long! Life has been,, a lot,,,,,
> 
> This is a little bit of a slow, short chapter. better things to come later, I promise! I hope you all enjoy!

Black Hat was not at breakfast the next morning.

This on its own was disconcerting -- coming down to the kitchen to find it barren. Trying not to let it bother him, Flug brewed the usual in Black Hat’s new teapot, not yet wanting to break in the new, fancy teas without Black Hat’s approval. There was no meat in the fridge, so Flug instead uses the groceries he picked up to make a nice breakfast scramble. When it’s done, he eats his own half, albeit a little slowly. When done, he waits.

The sun rises higher, the birds sing, and the tea goes cold to the touch... Flug picks desolately at remaining morsels of wilted spinach and dried egg still sitting on his plate, and as always, wonder what he did wrong  _ this time _ .

Feeling an admitted dejection, Flug dumps his own dish into the sink and sets Black Hat’s on the counter, just in case he changes his mind in Flug’s absence. It was as he was headed to his room, however, that he  _ felt _ it.

The sudden weight in his chest has become unfamiliar in the context of the cause but horrifyingly bordering on indistinguishable from some of his moods as of late. He slows his breath in an attempt to ease the pain and the pressure and staggers upstairs, trying not to raise alarm in himself at thinking over the last time this happened, somewhat fearing what a full-blown episode would feel like in congruence with his own natural emotions in full swing.

He makes it up to the study, shaking hand pushing open the door. Black Hat is in almost the exact same space as last time, not facing Flug as he slumps against the doorway for support, voice quivering as he asks, ”everything alright,  _ Jefecito _ ?”

The aura of acrimony is palpable and practically visible. It’s always been uninterpretable as to whether these specific summons were intentional or a side effect of the demon’s moods. Black Hat, of course, gives little indication of either direction - not today, not ever. He neither answers Flug’s question, so much as he growls back, “Well?”

It’s a trap if Flug’s ever heard one, but the palpitations of his heart are still going fast enough that he doesn’t have the energy to care.

“Well… what, sir?” He at least has the sense to sound cautious. It does not deter another low growl.

“ _ Well _ ?! It’s been at least an hour, Flug. Were you hoping I’d starve alone up here?!”

Was he --

_ Oh _ . Of course. All that worrying and waiting, and the only wrong that Flug had made against Black Hat was not being able to read the demon’s  _ mind _ .

“I’m -- sorry, sir, I… I thought you’d come down for breakfast, considering you’ve --” A second thought. A brief inhale, tongue in cheek. “...sorry,  _ Jefecito _ . Should I make you a new plate?”

“And waste what you’ve already made?! Do I look as if I fund failure, Flug?!”

He did not answer that, not trusting himself to keep his senses while still feeling a little light-headed. He merely mumbled more apologies before racing down to fetch the cold platter and tea. Urgency (spite) stopped him from reheating them, and within minutes, both were dropped unceremoniously onto Black Hat’s desk. Assuming himself free, Flug turned to leave, steps quickening. A horrible assumption.

His knees began to tremble, and the doorway again became his brace, as he wheezed once more, “ _ Yes, Jefecito _ ?”

As he turned to look back into the office, Black Hat was already sitting in front of his meal, though Flug had heard no footsteps. A gaze of disdain was set upon the doctor; Black Hat’s hands folded patiently.

“Flug,” he growled. “Do you fear me?”

This question befuddled him just as much as when he had asked it yesterday.

The answer seemed obvious - Flug’s self-preservation gave a quivering ‘yes’ once more, especially when being stared down like this. His current frustration, however, gave… well, admittedly, not too much difference, just a thinly reigned exasperation, as he responded, “Who wouldn’t fear you, Lord Black Hat,  _ Jefecito _ , sir?”

The answer didn’t… really seem to appease. Flug had a sinking feeling there was none that could. He waited for an irate dismissal, but that didn’t come either, leaving Flug in an uncomfortable limbo, fidgeting in the doorway. His neck began to feel the strain from craning back, and finally, Black Hat broke the cold stare to instead visually take in his food before shoveling it down. Flug gave himself minor reprieve by turning reluctantly back to facing in towards the study.

“Was… was there anything else,  _ Jefecito _ ?” Flug nervously switches support from one leg to the other, always in that increasing state of anxiety the longer he was held hostage in Black Hat’s presence. Black Hat pauses his brunch, the sounds of consumption stopping with one loud, wet slurp.

“Is your desperation to be rid of me that strong, doctor?” he rumbled. Flug gave high, nervous laughter at the possible humor present. Black Hat did not, and Flug ceased immediately.

“I… of course not,  _ Jefecito _ . I just… don’t… want to be a bother…” He slowly trailed into attempted explanation, pussy-footing his way back into the study, reluctantly sliding into a chair and bracing nervously onto his own inner thighs, squeezing them in an attempt to ease his own mind. “Uh… what’s… what’s the plan today?”

Black Hat grimaced, voicing Flug’s feelings on asking that exact question once more.

“I hardly think you’re in a place to be offering any productivity,” he sneered. A stab directly between Flug’s ribs. The bag crinkles in a hard flinch.

“I could…” he’s sweating to think of an answer. He gestures desperately towards the window. “... the sun?”

Black Hat stands immediately; Flug immediately scoots his chair back several feet, only for Black Hat to turn towards the window. He approached it, grabbing onto the curtains, harshly tugging them closed and flourishing mockingly towards the display.

“Dismissed,” he hissed before plopping into his armchair.

~*~

Black Hat did not come down to breakfast for the next few mornings, but Flug was prepared. He brought up both the plate and teapot. Black Hat did not engage him in the slightest as he dropped them off. He sat in the minorly lit darkness, and the plates would be sitting outside his door an hour later.

This became the new normal. It was hard to decide if it was worse or more preferable. God, probably neither.

After about a week of this came the day. Flug, just about to slip back outside, was stopped by a low, bestial noise that loosely resembled his name. He’s quick to turn, only to find the man directly in his face.

Ignoring the fact that he nearly drops dead from his heart stopping, he tries to speak up to acknowledge being addressed. All that comes out is a low, strangled noise best described as a ‘squeak’.

“Sit,” growls Black Hat, as if commanding a particularly stubborn dog.

Flug, in superfluous clarification, sits while promptly remembering that the chair is, in fact, still several feet away from where he’s sitting. Valiantly, he recovers from the stumble, curling his knees up towards his chest, sitting on the floor, and looking up anxiously at Black Hat.

Black Hat looks frustratingly disappointed. This is not a development in any real direction. He sits in his own chair, and he eats. Flug, obediently, does not move. He stares at the wall and wonders where his life went wrong.

When Black Hat is finished with his meal, licking his lips clean, he settles back into leering. Flug isn’t facing him directly, but he feels the burn of a gaze that looks him over, top to bottom, analytical.

“Flug,” he grunts. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to starve yourself.”

Flug blinks in confusion several times before looking over, bewildered at the change of subject to his own wellbeing, “It’s… I ate downstairs, sir.”

“So, it’s your opinion you should eat before me?”

The rise of the brow is a horrific challenge for Flug to  _ absolutely _ answer this correctly. He swallows audibly, shaking his head, “N-no sir! I’ll… I’ll…”

“Bring them both up together tomorrow? Splendid!” He pushes his plate off his desk, letting it clunk onto the carpet and turns, snubbing Flug. "I'll expect you bright and early, doctor. It's not as if you have more pressing business, do you?"

"No sir," he answered weakly. He bends forward to grab the plate before rising. "Bright and early. I'll... I'll be here."

Where else, after all, would he go?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! Thank you everyone for some lovely comments on this last chapter!! Life continues to be pretty busy, and I probably will not be individually replying for awhile like usual. But I do want you all to know that they're appreciated!!! I'm gonna do my best to turn out chapters at a fairly reasonable schedule!! Enjoy this one, I had a lot of fun writing it!!

Breakfast, interrupted, took henceforth place in the study -- not physically much of a labored effort on Flug’s part, but ( _emotionally_ ) mentally…

Previously separated by the comforting length of the dining table, the study was a much more… intimate space. Black Hat, though sometimes having to be coaxed from his armchair first when Flug came in, always ate at his desk. Flug really had nowhere else to sit but directly across, legs folded up compactly to balance his plate upon.

The actual feasting was done in silence. Despite Black Hat’s pressured insistence at Flug joining him, he didn’t seem intent upon conversation, outside of occasional remarks about recent events, plucked from his paper. And while there was little that could be done to break this stalwart refusal, god forbid Flug attempt to depart before Black Hat finished eating. The low warning growl that would come as he began to rise from his chair would promptly bring him back down again, gripping tightly onto his dishes. Never once when this happened did he ever catch Black Hat’s eyes actually upon him. The noise would simply rise in a frighteningly hastened cease of the marrow-snapping sounds of Black Hat chewing down his food. When he was actually done, he would fold his paper, and push his unnaturally clean plate towards Flug, often times requiring him to catch it. This was the signal that he would be allowed to go.

Routine indeed seemed to be a key in Black Hat’s lifestyle, Flug found himself ruminating, as he pushed foreign, discolored meat bits round his plate, mind wandering. Understandable - admirable, really, that he was making an effort. Simply unfortunate that the constancy and cycles wore horrifically at the treads of Flug’s mind. Instead of questioning it, his complacency fed it -- quite literally. And Flug continued to do little to intervene, at least for now. There had been enough ‘excitement’ these past few days. Speaking of…

“How have you liked the teapot, _Jefecito_?”

Flug spoke up meekly, a bit curious. While true, he’d been in doubt about finding a good fit from his choices, it actually looked rather nice in the office, placed next to the skull. The greened leaves and rehydrated, black, leathery berries swirl in the water, in and out of view behind the half-moon cover. When his attention is drawn to the pat, even Black Hat seems to be slightly caught in a somber admiration.

“Well enough,” he rumbles, low tone trying to hide his pleasure under a feigned disinterest. “The old teapot was soft-paste Sèvres Porcelain from the 16th century.” He sneered somewhat. “But I suppose this one does it’s job well enough.”

“Sorry, sir,” Flug amended quickly, shrinking a bit deeper into his seat. “I could see if we could get something different online. But, uh… we’re almost out of our given budget for the month. It… might have to wait a bit.”

“Bah!” Black Hat spat venomously. “What on Earth could we be spending our budget on that it runs out so fast, every month?!”

“Most food, _Jefecito_. I… I don’t think they account for more than one person when they calculate it. Um, I think… they assume you have less physical requirements.”

“Because _you_ have so many,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Look at you, Flug! You’re practically skin and bone! I don’t ever recall seeing you eat three meals every day before! We could be cutting some corners!”

Flug doesn’t have it in him to be more bleakly horrified by Black Hat’s deeply skewed understanding of the needs of the human body. If he was honest with himself, he’d had the same thought on multiple occasions. Going from limitless funding to fixed income was… well, not preferable. Again, it was a wonder that Villains always seemed to get such a terrible reputation when some heroes ideas of being ‘humane’ far surpassed any torture Flug could have conjured.

Something about his contemplations, however, seemed to have gone too long. He had not thought that what had been said required some kind of response. But after a bit, the sound of Black Hat stabbing rather angrily at his plate, the fork scraping on ceramic, was overlapped with a quiet, amending mumble, as if to draw feedback.

“Not breakfast. That a _direct_ order, Flug. There’ll be consequences if you decide your presence is _above _that particular duty.”__

__He had a numb awareness that the appropriate response to this was a simple, mindless, ‘yes, sir’. But the words didn’t come. A mental lag stalled the thought, and as it did it’s best to recover, autopilot gave a rather hollow plea -- “Why?”_ _

__There was a particular hold this question seemed to put upon the moment, where Flug instinctually tensed. But when it wasn’t followed by any growling or snarls, he looked back up at Black Hat -- buried rather intently in his paper, as if he hadn’t heard what Flug had said. This was Flug’s opportunity to run from his mistake. Instead, he took a risk. “Why… why is it so important, sir? Is this… does this accomplish anything? I mean, other than your… your general well-being, which is! Very important, of course.”_ _

__The newspaper crinkled a little loud, in the clenching grasp of talons - Flug’s head conjured images of those same hands tearing into a paper bag, encasing contents of a tad more… delicate nature. But again, no violence came. The sun seemed bright in the crack that shone through the curtain, and Flug continued. “I just… was wondering. What’s the plan? What’s next?”_ _

__He was at a middle point where he didn’t know what to expect. Things had not gone as he’d assumed, but they could either snap back, or they could barrel haphazardly into brand new territories. Flug held his breath in fearful anticipation._ _

__The sound of the paper being lowered sliced through his pondering. He snapped to look at Black Hat, and could tell purely from his dulled expression that whatever he said, whichever direction he went, it would be the worst._ _

__“I won’t repeat or explain myself,” grunted Black Hat dismissively. Flug holds his anticipation a second more, in the hopes of something more, a _little_ more. He’s instead rewarded with the crash of ceramic toppling. Black Hat’s chair turned away, leaving Flug to gather the breakfast dishes, and glumly retreat._ _

__~*~_ _

__Morning -- a new day, no holds barred. Chest puffed out confidently, Flug dropped the teapot rather loudly in front of Black Hat, who visibly recoiled once he caught glance. He stayed in that position for a moment, like a particularly riled cat. Once Flug was settled into his seat, he let out a low hiss._ _

__“ _Flug_ ”, he strained, “there’s _efflorescence_ in my tea!”_ _

__“It’s called…” Flug dug into his coat pocket for the packet the sample had come in, squinting distastefully at the name, ‘Floral Sunset’. “... it’s a Jasmine tea. They, uh, they’re quite popular, _Jefecito_! They came with the teapot.”_ _

__Black Hat’s lips curled back in disgust at the very concept. Flug was sweating, suddenly having second thoughts about this approach. He watched the demon slowly lower himself from his frozen analysis. He lifted the lid of the teapot, sniffing conceitedly at the rather colorful bouquet beginning to bloat within the water it stained. Jasmine had seemed the safer flavor to start with, out of the options he had been given. And finally, after a minute, Flug’s theory was validated, as Black Hat seemed to decide the tea just barely passed his judgment, pouring himself a cup. He was still, however, certain to relay through facial cues to Flug that he was not happy about it._ _

__“I thought something new would be nice,” defended Flug. “A… a treat?”_ _

__He was on decidedly more stable ground than when he first presented the tea, and much more than the other day. But this did not stop the evident, harsh judgment that passed over Black Hat’s face at that particular suggestion. “This is your idea of how to ‘treat’ me, Flug? Must you offend me by continuing to make it so clear how little you know me?”_ _

__That… should have struck as sensitive a nerve as it did. Flug did his best to brush off that particular pang, re-aligning himself to his original intent in this exercise. Surely he could turn this back around. He stirred his sugar into his own tea, with an absent-minded wandering, watching the water funnel. "... I know plenty about you, _Jefecito_. It's not as if I could have _not_ known about your reputation before you took me in for work. But you're... very hard to shop for."_ _

__"Nonsense! My standards are perfectly reasonable! Do I need it? Is it functional? Does its design lend to the aura of pure evil that I wish to project? Has it been baptized in the blood of one's enemies?"_ _

__Black Hat took a long sip of the blooming tea, holding it in his mouth, as if to dwell thoughtfully on the taste. Finally, he swallowed it down with a satisfied gulp. "I'll also often settle for a nice bottle of Chianti."_ _

__“I’ll keep it in mind, sir,” croaked Flug, muffled from where his face rested in both hands. Black Hat was hard to soften, he knew that going in to this. But he was drinking the tea now, which was a good sign, leaving Flug a little more confident for Part Two of his plan. He slowly sat up, watching Black Hat begin to eat, taking occasional sips off of his cup._ _

__“Is… is this just going to be the plan, sir?”_ _

__The falter was no immediately obvious. Outwardly, Black Hat seemed fine -- disinterested, even. But Flug swore he saw the hesitation, his hand holding still a minute before pouring himself a full cup. “Plan, Flug? You’ll have to be a little more --”_ _

__“Please, don’t.”_ _

__It’s a rather quiet, reasonable request, if Flug did say so himself. And yet it drew quite an overreaction. Black Hat snapped to look at him, tilting the teapot just a little too far, spilling over the rim of the cup. Flug jumped up, hastily mopping at the spill with his coat before it stained the wood. It gave him something else to look at as he stammered on, “I don’t want my intelligence insulted, sire. Either tell me what’s going on, or… don’t. But please, don’t lie to my face and tell me you don’t know what’s happening. If I’m… I’ve stayed her until now. A little truth would be nice.”_ _

__Flug’s heart was hammering in his chest. He still didn’t look up, continuing to sop at moisture that no longer existed. He wondered on the unearthly silence from Black Hat - wondered if he had lungs, for the lack of breath that he seemed to take._ _

__“... the plan, Flug, is the same as it’s been.” He heard the man settle into his chair. “You’ll continue to attend to this household, and you’ll bring breakfast. Until I inform you otherwise, I will _not_ hear that question from you again. Understood?”_ _

__It was relatively honest, at least. Flug wondered when he would stop hoping for more._ _

__“ _Jefecito_... I don’t…”_ _

__“ _UNDERSTOOD_?”_ _

__A flinch in his hunched shoulders, and an abrupt nod. “Understood…”_ _

__“ _Splendid_.”_ _

__Flug awaited the crash of dismissal, but it didn’t come, surprisingly. Black Hat opened his paper back up, wordlessly indicating that in spite of this, he’s not yet tired of Flug’s presence. Deciding not to take this for granted, Flug quietly sat down, and continued working on his own meal, as Black Hat drank down almost the entire cup of his tea, smacking his lips when done._ _

__“... could use a little cyanide.”_ _

__Another cup. And a breakfast finished in silence._ _


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!! Happy Easter!!!!
> 
> THis is gonna be a kind of long note! I wanna thank everybody for holding out so long!! I really do enjoy writing this story, but it's very validating to know people enjoy reading it! I really hate having this spotty schedule, but there's been some issues of my family having to look for a new home that have kept me busy, plus trying to keep up with work. But I promise, I will update you guys if I ever REALLY find myself unable to update.
> 
> The previous chapters have been edited by tomasyri.tumblr.com! seriously, they've been a wonderful editor, and a ton of help, as well as very friendly.
> 
> Finally, I have a gift for your guys' easter baskets!! I have a playlist of music I keep for the fic, if anyone is interested in listening!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/dirkofthegods/playlist/2pRNOzHbC1dRr7NyTsksRy
> 
> Finally! I have a tumblr, if you ever wanna make sure I haven't died (or just talk to me!)!! you can find me at hhhhellbound-gatestuck.tumblr.com!
> 
> I hope everyone has a fantastic day, regardless of what they're celebrating!! And I hope you enjoy the new chapter!!

Never before had he found that a day could not end fast enough.

Days in general were rather slow of late, but this one seemed to drag in a stewing agony, listening to Black Hat slowly sip at his tea, settling into the vacuum that settled after the broken seal of taboo. Once dismissed, Flug, ever-obedient, did the only other thing allowed in Black Hat’s instruction to him.

 He was not a fantastic housekeep. No one really was, compared to 5.0.5, but that was a nostalgia he did not want to dwell upon. He drowned the thought in first getting the dishes done. Halfway through rinsing, however, he was interrupted by an alert from his phone. Not a custom tone - something abrupt, and monotone, with the dullness of officiality 

Humming irritably, he checked the phone, though he almost certainly knew what it had to say. Sure enough, it was an alert saying that his recent log had been submitted for review, and requesting that he send proof of his claims of purpose.

The receipts were already prepared, and filed near the computer. On his way to comply, he checked other connected links to find the status of his recent appeal. A mess of complicated jargon essentially informed him that it was, in more simpler terms, ‘processing’. He sighed, putting his phone to sleep, not liking the nervous churn of his gut, that twisted feeling of knowing. Anxiety’s a liar, he reminds himself. He had made some incredibly good points this time around. This could finally turn in his favor.

The hallways he passed through were coated in dust and cobwebs. For the first month or so, Flug had done his hesitant best to keep it clean. But when it became clear that he and Black Hat had stuck mostly to their own rooms, apathy ceased the effort. He channeled what energy he did have from day-to-day into keeping the computers clean and functional, and keeping his room in a minimal state of disorder. The computer had the admittedly better end of the deal, despite Flug’s inherent hatred of the item in question, which he sat himself in front of. He answered it’s questions, filled the correct forms, and slumped back with a loud sigh. After a few deep breaths, he sat back up, closing all the windows to minimize strain. The sickeningly bright wallpaper image was left - a white top hat with a silver, arced aura behind it, and an hourglass set in the middle of the image. It was tacky, as far as Flug was concerned. He had tried to change it several times before, but it was often changed back in any range between ten minutes to an hour. They did not seem to enjoy having their things touched.

Hypocritical, sneered Flug’s internal thought process. But there was not point in fixating upon it.

When Flug ran out of things to dab and wipe at, a vague mimicry of upkeep, he tinkered instead with one of the old cameras Black Hat had torn down. This had been a bit of a… personal, secret project. He had been sweating bullets when he’d lied to the maintenance, telling them he had no idea what Black Hat had done with the vandalized, missing unit. God, they had eyed him with such distrust, but they did not press at it. As soon as they’d left, he’d hastily probed it to be sure it could not operate wirelessly. Even after double - triple - quadruple checking, he still kept it in a copper-lined box, and kept the lens covered.

He was not entirely sure what he could get out of this. God, he had practically given up in this last month. But now, with Black Hat practically admitting his lack of plans for the future, he was getting desperate. Maybe, just maybe, there was something here he could use. He had already managed to learn a few things about their captors - or guards, or whatever they wanted to call themselves to feel better.

Unfortunately, now, he found little else new, much less helpful. After about an hour, he gave up, crumpling forward into his hands.

God, he was useless, wasn’t he…?

He allowed a moment of sulking, before shaking off the majority of his self pity. Only a small bit lingered, to fester and grow, to be later shed, to start the cycle anew. 

On his way to his room, he passed the study door, cracked open, the room dark inside. He only pauses at the threshold for a second, foot settling heavily, before the other started forward. He listened, hearing the quiet sounds of shuffling, pacing, and his eyes fixated mindlessly on the void. His pace picked up with a start as the light from outside reflected on a single, glassy circle, turned quietly in his direction. But nothing barred his escape, the bedroom door slamming closed behind him with no trouble.

He waited, just to be sure. When only silence followed, he sighed, stripping down to just a shirt and boxers, and collapsing, tired, onto his bed. Sleep did not immediately come - just a long night of watching the ceiling, doing his best to divine something from the shadows.

~*~

Black Hat was discomforted.

It was clear enough. Something about the silence over breakfast the next morning. While not necessarily foreign, something about it seemed to stifle both men. Black Hat sensed it, constantly taking glances at the slumped Flug, not touching his food. Flug was certain he thought he didn’t notice. He let him believe that, more heavily occupied in fishing for the feeling that best described this. After an intense inner debate, he settled for ‘irritating’. 

“Doctor,” he growled, breaking Flug’s train of thought. “You’re disarmingly silent for someone who had so much _rubbish_ to say _yesterday_.”

The critique hardly breaks Flug’s hide. He just pushes food around his plate, sighing.

“Sorry, _Jefecito_. If it’s bothering you, I can leave.”

“Bah! You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” sneered Black Hat. “ _You’re_ the one that’s supposed to be catering to _my_ whims. Would you _really_ rather run than take a little pride in your work?!”

The answer, as usual, was a clear, resounding ‘YES’. But Flug had a feeling that response would not be received. He instead braced himself with a deep breath, before giving a slow, “ - if you want to talk, sir, you could… always let me know. Wh-what did you want to talk about?”

That seemed to do well enough - at least in the terms that Black Hat’s irritation shifted from Flug to the clear indication that this man had <i>nothing</i> to actually speak about. His mouth snapped shut, as he sat himself back down in his chair, glaring at an empty space just left of Flug’s head, in deep concentration. Flug watched him struggle for a minute. When it became apparent he couldn’t conjure any excuse, Flug took pity, and finally, reluctantly appeased him.

“... a-anything interesting in the paper today, _Jefecito_?”

Black Hat was pulled from the near catatonic stare, giving a sudden, aggressive snarl, picking up the paper just to give it an angry shake. “Hardly! You’d think in _my_ absence, at least SOME incompetent fool would try to take my place!”

“I-I think a lot of other places collapsed. They… they got a lot of information when they raided our database, sir. Names, contact information… I think a lot of other Villains got hit as well.”

Flug whipped out his phone, placing his plate on the desk, giving up on the idea of eating. Black Hat snatched it up with vigor, digging in as Flug flicked through the recent global news. “Um… yeah, I think I recognize most of these names… H.A.L.O. usually runs a big best every week or so. I’m not exactly sure what they do. Most of the names just go by without any trouble, if you’re not paying attention. They’re… very efficient.”

They had to have been, thought Flug, with a nauseating bitterness. The raid on the Manor had been quick, organized, and hard-hitting. Flug hadn’t even realized they’d made it through security until he’d felt the shudders wracking his body, indicating that something with his Employer was amiss. The rushing limp to the study, the dead stop as he’d seen Black Hat, backed into a corner, surrounded by outfitted ‘Ambassadors’ with hardly neutral stances; everything else after that was a blur of pain, torture. And now --

 

\-- here they were.

 

Black Hat doesn’t take much notice of the mood that grips Flug so suddenly. Licking his lips, he’s climbing over the desk with a furrowed brow, neck craning to look at the articles that Flug’s bringing up. He squints at the small writing, leering in close. Flug, grateful for the lack of attention to his hazy disassociation, decides to be helpful and zoom in on the text. After a minute of mumbling to himself under his breath, Black Hat lets out some angered babbling.

“ _Of all the nerve…!!_ ”

Claws dig in to the back of Flug’s hand that Black Hat is braced onto, shocking Flug very suddenly back into the moment. Black Hat responds to the injured wail with an offended glance backwards, before hurdling the rest of the way over the desk and posing himself precariously into Flug’s lap, trying his best to wrest the phone away from him. “How are you getting these updates,” growled the demon.

“ _Hhhhhhhhlll_ \-- llllot’s of places, sir!” Flug wheezed, struggling with the Eldritch Mess now compressing him. Black Hat was strangely heavier than he appeared. God, were his bones made of lead?! “Tww- twitter feeds, mostly. I-I could ssss-set you up an account!”

Taking mercy - or, perhaps, finding Flug to be an uncomfortable perch - Black Hat clambered off of the doctor, using the weakened grip to his advantage and taking the phone. Flug allowed him his trophy, slumping bonelessly into the chair, choking as he tried to catch his breath. 

“What on Earth would I do with it,” responded Black Hat after a minute. He was grumbling rather fiercely. “You know I consider these things a waste of time. Like that thing. With the questions.”

“I-it’s very different from that. I-I could hook you up to some global news accounts, _Jefecito_.” Rubbing his chest tenderly, Flug slowly sits up, taking a few deep, testing breaths. “Y-You can follow my account, too. I-It’s kind of like having the paper, but it updates more frequently.”

Black Hat seemed interested, but skeptical. Flug extended his hand, pleading silently to have his phone back, at the very least. “... here, I’ll... I could set it up now?” 

Begrudgingly, Black Hat returned the device. Flug braces himself to be sat on again, and was greatly relieved when Black Hat instead positioned himself behind the chair, leering over the man’s shoulder. His breath was quiet against Flug’s muffled ears, and warm on the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine, and raising goosebumps along his arms. Preferable, yes. Flug just had to not think too hard about the unnerving feeling washing over him, or the strange heat sitting low in his gut, and tingling over his head. Logging out of his account, Flug looks back at the other man to be sure he’s paying attention.

“Okay! Let’s… let’s just make your username BlackHat. And I’m just gonna set the password as ‘Jefecito’, okay?”

The growl in response was clear enough. Flug responded anxiously, “you can change it later. We’re just -  this is just a quick set-up, okay? Let’s see…”

The next few moments sink into silence, Black Hat watching as Flug finds good accounts for him to follow. He seems to give some minor feedback that Flug begins to pick up on - reacting to names of news stations he presumably recognizes, giving small, low responses of either purring, or disgusted, nasally grunts, indicating to Flug whether to follow or pass them over. It becomes an almost calming sort of bonding, that Flug leans comfortably, dangerously close into. He nervously cuts himself off, once Black Hat seems to have a busy enough feed. Pulling away, Flug looks back, daring to be a bit hopeful as he extends the phone back towards the man.

“And -- there we go, sir! Take a look?”

 Black Hat’s eager to scrabble possession of Flug’s phone back, pacing to his desk, hunched curiously over the screen. A feeling arose within Flug that had been rare as of late - a warm swelling of pride and accomplishment, a sense soon validated with the surprising amount of approval in the apathetic rumble that come from Black Hat’s throat. He doesn’t say anything else - he doesn’t need to. He finally settles himself back at his desk, claws tapping fervently at the screen. The sound does send slight shudders through Flug’s spine, horrified at the scratches surely now adorning his phone, but overall? A sense of contentment.

“Do you like it, _Jefecito_? If you give me your phone, I can log you in on there!”

A temporary pause in Black Hat’s scrolling. He gives Flug a skeptical, distasteful glance, before reaching for the rotary dial phone, cord long ago disconnected after H.A.L.O. had received some distasteful phone calls. The both of them lock eyes, one in expectation, the other in disbelief. 

Needless to say, his next job was finding a new phone. But at the very least, Black Hat was content, which did more for Flug’s wellbeing than anything else.

~*~

Limbo - the liminal state as the next week lulled. Breakfast after breakfast, Black Hat tapping at his phone in delight between bites of food. Conversation didn’t reach any new particular peaks, but that was… honestly alright by Flug. Black Hat had already made his current postion very clear. Talking would mean having to confront it. Flug could at least take a small pleasure at seeing him do something besides sulk and lurk around the Manor.

 But, of course - everything was fleeting.

Breakfast was ready. Flug was greeted upon entering by his old phone being launched at his head - better, at least, than the teapot. A lifetime of muscle memory and quick reflexes had him duck to dodge, hearing it bounce against the door frame instead. He couldn’t tell if the angered snarl that followed was of a general frustration, or an anger at missing his mark. 

“... something wrong, _Jefecito_?”

Despite the calm in his face, Flug’s trying hard to keep his hands from shaking as he sets the tray of food down gingerly, before shuffling a few steps backwards, keeping eye contact as he slowly kneels down to retrieve the phone. The screen, while covered in a mess of hairline scratches, was alright. A small amount of poking around brought up an email, with a notice from Twitter, of suspension. 

“The -- the -- _chirimbolo_ \-- ! The _THING_ isn’t working, Flug! Fix it! Some _nonsense_ about _violations_ , it’s a _violation_ for them to be _INCONVENIENCING_ me like this!” 

Black Hat soothes himself with a few vigorous bites, only to send it spraying as he angrily chitters. Flug took deep breaths, trying to quietly process the situation, reading over all the information he had.

“... sir, you… you told an account praising H.A.L.O.’s work that you would…” He squinted disbelievingly at the tweet in question. “... that you would ‘extract his spine slowly by individual vertebrae’, then force it back to him through the… I-I’m quoting, sir... the ‘pathetic excuse of an orifice’ that ‘continues to spew such mindless, hideous sentimentality through your face’.” 

Flug laughed in hollow disbelief. “That’s… that’s excellent use of the new character limit, sir, but you… you can’t _SAY THAT_ . They… they have _RULES_.”

What was he expecting? What did he honestly expect Black Hat to take away from this? As it stood, his largest reaction seemed to be an apparent irritation at losing his new toy, but he hardly had an ounce of regret. He stared Flug down, as if to bully from him a solution, a fix - anything to keep his amusement engaged. This had been… so good. Flug hadn’t needed to do anything. Black Hat was happy, and everything that had been lurking in the underbelly of Flug’s thoughts hadn’t needed to be addressed.

An appeal would be pointless - this, Flug already knew. Even if anyone happened to take pity, Black Hat would probably last, at most, a day before repeating the infraction. He was rather determined in that way. But of course, as said, this was a moot point. As Flug continued to find only more threats of bodily and psychological harm, all incredibly verbose and imaginative, and all incredibly damning, it was clear that Flug’s life would only be made more difficult by the mere attempt.

 “ _Well_?”

An impatient query, as to why Flug so far has only present problems and not solutions. Flug didn’t know what to tell the man. A leopard can’t change it’s spots - but that didn’t mean it could be given the go-ahead to be kept in heavily trafficked spaces. Flug was at a loss on how to explain that to a man, a _beast_ such as Black Hat. 

“... I… there’s nothing I can do,” he tried weakly, lowering the phone to engage direct eye contact with the other man. “You just… they’re not going to let you stay on there if you keep harassing people.” 

“Harassing?” The demon scoffed. “Hardly! If I -- “

 “ _THREATENING_ , then!” Flug snapped. Black Hat recoiled in a slight, disgruntled startle. Flug sobered himself with a deep, regretful inhale. “... y-you can’t _threaten_ people anymore, _Jefecito_. We’re not exactly in a position to be attracting that kind of attention.”

“Meaning precisely _what_ , Doctor?” The growl that Black Hat gave showed a clear lack of favor in Flug’s point. “That you see me as that type? Merely _seeking attention_ from overbred peons on an _insignificant_ little electronic box??”

He shouldn’t have even tried. He shouldn’t have expected any better. Why - _why_ , on this Hell of a plane, would he ever expect Black Hat to _listen_?

“That’s not what I meant sir,” he responded, quiet, but clear, and unbreaking. Black Hat was rising from his chair, glowering at the scientist, and slowly beginning to approach him as he spoke in low undertones of something approaching rage.

“Then perhaps next time you should think before you speak, Flug. In the meanwhile - you _tell_ whoever saw fit to take away one of the few, _small_ joys I have left in this _miserable_ plane of existence that I am not taking _NO_ for an answer.”

He was now practically nose-to-nose with Flug, seething over this innate slight, the punishment for which Flug was taking the brunt of. Flug thought over a million angry, and all equally foolhardy responses - that Black Hat was showing more spine over a social media ban than their entire situation, that this was not worth it, that he needed to listen, that this wasn’t his fault, for once, _Flug did not have an ounce of fault_. And yet, he knew he was still going to take this out on him.

Speechlessness instead overtook Flug - a violent locking of his jaw and vocal chords. Choked attempts at speech trailed off into wheezing disbelief. He could practically hear the faintest sound of a gentle crackling, like the twisting of bundled twigs, hoarded and packed fervently away, twisting under persistent pressure. Holding strong for the moment being, but with the right amount of force, prepared to snap.

Black Hat turned heel, going back to his chair. Flug stood, staring ahead blankly into space. Again, he hadn’t even touched his breakfast. It went cold on Black Hat’s desk, and Flug only responded by taking another step back - another, another…

“ _Flug_.”

Pause - tense. Flug was just a few more steps from the door. He stayed where he was, the edges of his vision feeling as if they were beginning to fade. He heard Black Hat shift restlessly when he did not receive any kind of verbal recognition. “ _Doctor F̕Ļ̛U̸̷G̨_ ,” he repeated, irritable, teeth clenched, and his speech slipping into that otherwordly hiss. “I did **_NO͏T͝_ ** _̨̛d҉i̵͟s̢m̧͏i̛͜s̷͠s͘ ̢̛y͝o̸u͝_.”

Flug barely even feels as if he’s breathing. He swipes around on his phone, mindless and numbing, no real progress being made. He checks his appeal process - pending, limbo sustained.

And despite the snarl that he knew the pounding in his ears was drowning out, he continued moving forward, the door slamming behind him. A few hastened steps felt like a mile, and he was already trembling by the time he got to the end of the hallway, heart pounding out of his chest, tears threatening to soak through his bag. He ignored the compression on his lungs that beckoned him back, closing himself instead in his room, sliding down against the door. He breathed deep, with a greed that could not be satiated, could not ever seem to fill him. And he waited. And he waited. And he waited, for everything to fall back into sync, for a reset that never seemed to come.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Thank you for your patience!
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter's taken so long! I don't wanna bore you guys too much with the details, but I was a little caught up with moving! I hope this chapter is worth the wait!
> 
> The length's been bumped up a bit! I don't know if that's going to continue, but I hope you like it! : ) Please enjoy!

Flug, in his professional opinion, was dying.

This was, by all means, a bleak prognosis. There was no way to sugarcoat the situation, as he awoke for the third time with a feeling as though his chest were about to cave in. It hurt -  _ God, it hurt _ \- and he’d yet to figure out if he was explicitly being awoken by the jarring pangs, or if they just so happened to coincide with his natural sleep cycles. He supposed knowing the truth would change nothing. In fact, once he thought about it for awhile, he decided that this was actually a decided improvement from his original surprise at being alive at <i>all</i>.

Three days since he’d oh so <i>stupidly</i> decided that his best course of action was to march his way out of Black Hat’s office. The sharp, stinging sensation of his Boss attempting to summon him didn’t pass for hours - Flug had passed out from fatigue at the very first sign of relief. When he’d awoken again, a state of shock managed to wade it’s way through the pain. He was still in his room. The door was still intact. And a few double-checks did, in fact, confirm that he still had a pulse, albeit one that skipped often between it’s strained tracks of frantic pulsing.

So yes. ‘Alive, for now’,’ was an improvement. By this point, he had learned that few practiced, deep breaths, and breakfast of stale Belvita Biscuits could help his body slowly condition itself to the pain. But it was all an admittedly temporary solution.

The sound of breaking and crashing, from the vague direction of the study, was quick to remind him of the alternative.

As Flug rose from his bed, the floor crinkled softly beneath his feet - discarded wrappers from a steady diet of snacks he’d stashed in his room. He yawned, stretching in the slatted light of slightly upturned blinds. Sifting through piles of clothes, he extracted a pair of sweats that were relatively clean. A shudder wracked his body at another twitch of beckoning pain - deep breaths, and again it passed. He removed his shirt to change all undergarments, and once he was fully dressed again, he hunkered down in front of his door. Resting back, he listened.

Silence: a frightening ruse, to which Flug refused to fall victim. He kept his bag off for now, as there were no prying eyes to worry about. He didn’t bite into his breakfast biscuit so much as he teethed it gently, letting it soggily crumble into his mouth, with as little noise as possible.

And eventually it came - the sounds of footsteps, falling loud, even upon the carpet, and drowned out only by the cacophony of whispers, rising in volume as they approached. Flug held his breath, paused mid-bite. His knees curled in closer to his chest, making himself as small as he possibly could. And he did feel so, so small, as an unnatural shadow fell through the cracks under his door, and the pain his chest seemed strong enough to crack his own ribs, as though to beckon his aching heart through.

Then, just as it had the other two nights, it passed. The orchestrated chaos fell to a numb, the shadows retreating back into the hall. Inexplicably, he was spared. One more day, one more day at least.

Flug sighed to ease the tension. Just as he began to feel inclined towards gratitude, he reached for another packet of Belvitas - only for his fingers to scrape against the bottom of an empty box.

Internally debating the length of struggling his meager life was worth, Flug glumly opened the last of two boxes still stored away. At least another day, he reminded himself. One more day at least.

~*~

An epiphany came over Flug one day.

… well. Epiphany was a strong word. But he didn’t know the precise vernacular for ‘a fact you’ve known since Day 1 but only chose just now to acknowledge’.

Whatever the term for THAT precise feeling, it came to him: a realization that an already confined schedule becomes swiftly unbearable when you are suddenly bound to carry it out alone in only one room.

Flug, however, did not consider himself a quitter. He made do.

A deck of playing card provided for a few frustrating rounds of Solitaire. It was only when he began to taste the first few signs of victory that he discovered it was missing several cards. The box, on further examination, looked as though it had been gnawed on. There were too many potential culprits for him to pinpoint, and there would have been no point regardless.

Puzzles were another distraction, albeit a poor one. Again, many pieces were missing. In this particular case, Flug knew precisely where they were - long passed through 5.0.5.’s digestive tract, during attempted ‘quality learning time’. Flug laughed to himself - it wasn’t a joyful sound, too tinged with the ache of nostalgia. He finished what he could, the blank pieces a hollow memento.

Time gained it’s own empty rituals: checking his repeals every hour, naps. And every other hour, give or take a few minutes - the held breath, and the passing shadows through the cracks in his door.

A morbid curiousity, the limits of internal sense of worth, wanted to open the door. To beckon in this reaper of an inevitable end, or just out of  _ need _ to know why the other man didn’t just do it himself. Maybe after a good year, when he was on the peak of dying from starvation, he could accept this violent release.

( _ He… really needed to stop defaulting to these VERY dark places. _ )

Most of the time he just played on his cell phone. Half undressed, tangled in sheets that were beginning to feel grimy. The closest room to him was the bathroom, which meant he at least avoided a risk of dehydration, or infection. He thought over soaking some sheets and clothes in the tub - some rudimentary hand-washing, and a solution that did nothing to dissuade the rumbling in his gut, slowly refusing to be sustained by ‘meal supplements’. ‘Traitor,’ thought he bitterly.

He didn’t believe the Empathetic Pains were helping, either. If anything, he wondered with horror if they weren’t putting a strain on his metabolism, requiring him to take in more sustenance.

Oh, God. Was that the plan? To smoke him out with starvation??

Flug shook the chills from his spine. Black Hat was diabolical, but rarely had plans that reached that far ahead. He decided to chase the erratic anxiety with another puzzle. He still had some desk space to fit at least one more.

~*~

Dreams, Flug finds, are restless.

He awakens from them sometimes with a cold sweat, entirely unassociated with his usual wake-up calls. Sometimes he remembers them - oftentimes not. Occasionally, they leave him with numb, dysmorphic, as if they were not even  _ his  _ dreams that clung to the inside of his skull. These types are the worst, sometimes starting out normal enough, but quickly changing to an outside awareness. Though he never sees himself in these dreams, he sometimes has the feeling as though he  _ has _ \- like he’s caught a glimpse of himself in a passing mirror, long enough to know that something isn’t right.

This feeling can be bottled and temporarily eased with mindless scrolling on his phone. He jumps from clickbait to gossip, to anything that can spike that little piece of intrigue that tries to convince you the problem simply isn’t there. Effective, for the most part. But dangerous when he inevitably runs into a little piece of reality.

It happens this time, in the form of an article. Flug almost flips past it, but a small shock comes upon him as he belatedly realizes the names he picked up, in the back of his mind. Against better judgement, he goes back.

It was… gossip, for the most part. He was semi-surprised to find people were still discussing Black Hat’s recent digital tirade. Mostly people who were in turn surprised to see the name casual use once more.

(  **God, I thought the whole place was shut down. What’s H.A.L.O. even doing?** )

(  **didn’t know they let you use twitter in jail** )

(  **I live in the next town over!! There’s still people living there but you wouldn’t know it!! But i’m surprised they let this happen??** )

The article itself made Flug… nauseous. Not that he was mentioned really. But he was glued to the discussion of the ‘vanquished’ ex-Ringleader of the ‘long-dissolved’ Black Hat Organization. Third-rate journalism, spread-out pages of vague comments about super-imposed screenshots of some of Black Hat’s more… choice threats, that had cost him his account. There was some minimal criticism of H.A.L.O. for how they chose to handle the situation - as if though they’d had any involvement in what happened. As far as Flug knew, they hadn’t passed down any judgment, letting Twitter take care of it. But of course, the public had their own ideas. The further he went down comments, the more wild the discussion became.

(  **No surprise. I heard BHO is just a branch HALO made to make themselves look better** )

(  **dumb, false. BHO is coming back** )

(  **Wasn’t he dead?** )

A seemingly common belief. Flug paused over the comment, before scrolling down. As he began to pay attention, the multitude of similar statements stood out.

(  **I thought he was dead!!** )

(  **captured? Yeah right. He’s dead.** )

(  **article misspelled dead** )

(  **wasn’t he supposed to be really powerful? Guess that was fake** )

(  **Good riddance lmao** )

  
  
  
  


Flug decided he’d had enough of the article, putting his phone to sleep. He let it sit like that, staring at a blank screen, trying to decide if he wanted to keep fucking around on social media. With further thought, he found himself completely opposed to the idea, putting the phone aside, and collapsing back onto the bed. The shapes and shadows of the ceiling hold his attention for only minutes more, before he’s drifting off again.

  
  
  


The next dream, he remembers.

He’s locked in his lab. Demencia is on the ceiling, not in that hunched, scrabbling position, but standing horizontal. Her shrill cackling mocks him, as she points at him below. He wonders to himself why he doesn’t just leave through the window that has suddenly found itself installed in his lab. He’s amazed he’s never noticed it before. But when he looks outside, he remembers why. There’s nothing out there. Just a blinding void, between the window sill and the gates, the town taunting him just beyond it. Covering his ears to drown out Demencia’s continued laughter, he goes again to check the door. He presses his ear to the cold steel, and he listens.

Something on the other side breathes, labored, pained. He heard the faint splash of something viscous dripping onto hard floors. And he feels the vibrations in the squealing of talons against the door’s surface, entreating permission to enter.

“He keeps knocking,” announces Flug to Demencia, matter-of-factly. Nothing about this previously observed action can be described as ‘knocking’. It doesn’t matter. Demencia (?) has stopped laughing. Something about her is different, but Flug can’t place his finger on it. She is standing in front of him as he turns round. She puts her hands on his shoulders in a startling intimacy. Her grip is strong - stronger then he remembers.

“He’s the one that locked you in,” Demencia (???) reminds him firmly. Her voice is as dry as the grave, as though she’s been choked with dust and cobwebs. Flug hums, troubled.

“I know. But I think he lost the key. I should use mine.”

He pulls out no such key. Regardless, the door does indeed open, and he passes through. The door leads into Black Hat’s study. Convenient that it is now linked directly to his lab. The window looks upon the same void as before, but the town is nowhere to be seen. Instead, he’s blinded by a bright glare, so blinding that he can’t seem to focus. He draws the blinds. Much better. The thick sounds of dripping catch his ear again, and he turns round.

His study was quiet. He could feel the clench in his jaw, locking, tensing, as he hunched over the desk. Long grooves were scratched into the wood, and he soothed himself by running his fingers over them, talons grinding even deeper. He felt a hunger, and stubbornly ignored it. He would not feed. The Lesson would not be learned that way.

Unfortunately, resolve did not fix pain. He felt not just the ache of starved desire in a human-condensed form, but the twinge of old wounds and frayed nerves. Pain shot up his right arm, and he braced onto it with a low hiss, air sucked in between his teeth. He fought back the urge to simply chew off the limb, combating with the animal brain telling him of the freedom it would grant, reminding it venomously that it would not end as well as it might think. He wasn’t quite a man, but he wasn’t an  _ idiot _ . Not like his coward of a caretaker.

His talons paused in the lackadaisical pattern they traced. He straightened up, starting towards the door and down the hall, his furor building. As the hallway grew darker, he faded into the shadows, physical form dissipating, and slinking under the doorway. He remained at the threshold, just behind where the light from the window poked in. And he watched the sleeping body inside, awash with a lonely bitterness in the tendrils that sought some sort of contact in their prodding.

Flug awoke with a start.

Sleep-filled eyes and panicked darting had trouble discerning if the retreating shadows were really there, or the mere remnants of waking dreams. He jumped in haste, head rushing as he opened the blinds fully, burning with a flushed feeling he could not quite place. His arms were shaking as he threw the door open, looking wildly back and forth into the hallway.

Nothing. The shadows around him were cold and unresponsive. Still trembling, he flicked on the hall light, feeling like a child who still believed the monsters of the world could be kept away with just a small, fragile radiance. It did little to dispel his unease.

His room gave no more comfort as he closed himself back in. He grabbed another packet of biscuits. He’d done a recent count of the open box to figure out if he had enough to make this box last through tomorrow. Now, aware he’d likely be getting no sleep tonight, he had doubts. He ate two, just so he could embrace that spite at his own failures.

~*~

Starving yourself seems like an easy enough strategy on paper.

When he’d gotten down to four biscuits, he’d told himself, ‘one a day’. On the first day of this strategy, he couldn’t last, and ate two, hating himself immensely. He’d skipped MULTIPLE meals during research binges. Now he couldn’t even finish half a day without needing food.

Some of the usual bargaining and hopelessness gave way to daydreaming. A hopeful thought crossed his mind - maybe he could just  _ leave _ . Open the door, walk out, cook some food as though nothing had happened. Hell, Black Hat had probably already forgotten the whole thing!

Reality was intent on disproving him with a particularly painful bout of Empathetic Summons, that left his undernourished body wracked in a shuddering cold sweat. It felt like hours that he sat there, head in his hands, staring at the floor. When he came to, it had been about thirty minutes.

Like some kind of mental poll, his previous debate flashed up in his mind. How much struggling was he worth?

This seemed like a decision that should be made in slightly more… dignified circumstances. Flug stood again, looking around. He’d lost track of the days, but had a vague recognition that they must have been reaching a larger number, judging by the light reek of sweaty laundry, and the uneven texture of trash and filth below his feet.

Okay. This he could do. This was a start.

Flug started with a cursory gathering of the larger pieces of trash. This did very little to make any actual progress, but it made him  _ feel  _ better. The next step was gathering up rancid pieces of laundry, bundling them into his sheets. A larger dent was put in the overall mess. But he was hardly going to count this as a victory until he actually got some washing done.

Peeking out into the hallway, everything seemed peaceful enough. The light had remained on since that last scare, but flickered ominously every so often, making his heart stop every time. He took several cautious glances to be safe, and made a hastened shuffle towards the bathroom.

The bathroom was hardly modern by any standards. The only natural lighting in it was the very small transom window above the bathroom shower. When Flug flipped the switch, the lights came to a dull, washed flicker, not much better at illuminating the room. The only thing they really seemed to add was a low hum that scraped at Flug’s sleep-deprived, raw nerves. He hurried to turn the tap, letting the rush of water tune it out. As the tub slowly filled, he dumped in his laundry, then began stripping himself down.

A disgusting feeling clung to his skin, like a slight film. He was happy to step into the tub, even as the water scalded him slightly, wet fabric pooling around his ankles. Letting out a low, discomforted hiss, he added a little more cold water, two-stepping in and out until it was more bearable. The burn became a minor glow in his skin, almost soothing. He got to work, digging through abandoned toiletries on the shower rack, which he drizzled over the laundry. It was apple-scented, somewhat sour, but pleasant on his senses. When he felt he’d added enough, he bent down, sloshing his arms through it all, building a lather. He made sure it coated the laundry as a whole, then started to scrub at the stains more of a vigor.

It was decent busy work for awhile, until his stomach gave another rumble at the effort. He paused, standing back up to regather himself. Instead, a wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him. He braced himself, knocking into the shower wall, breath heavy with exertion.

_ Fuck _ .

When sure he wouldn’t slip and fall, Flug stepped out of the tub, a rather cold sloshing following the movement. He dried himself off, feeling somewhat defeated as he sat himself on the toilet cover, grabbing his phone from the floor. He flicked mindlessly through everything, letting his laundry soak. He shivered in the cold of the tiled room, and wondered how much nutritional value was in his numerous puzzles positioned around his room. They made a good enough snack for 5.0.5.

There was nothing interesting online. Disgusted, he flipped through the countless unorganized apps he’d download out of boredom. Brain teasers, puzzles, food delivery services, translators…

_ Wait _ …

He sat up suddenly, slightly perked. Food delivery…!

Again, he was jumping to his feet, staggering through the head rush. Flug clambered into the tub, peering out through the window. There was a back gate that was rarely used, mostly reserved for throwing out uncooperative clients, or disposing of the remains of any unfortunate victims of Flug’s defense system. His room looked almost directly out onto it. THere would be a lot of prep involved. He’d have to pre-alert H.A.L.O., get the approval, direct and warn the delivery person to quietly let themselves in. But, if he could coordinate it…

Flug was already typing his e-mail to H.A.L.O. He covered himself modestly with a towel, and shuffled back to his room. He threw on some more clothes, and tied the towel, along with blankets and clothes into a modest, makeshift rope, securing one oversized sleeping shirt onto the end as a sort of cradle. While waiting for the proper confirmations, he had a celebratory snack of his remaining biscuits. They were stale, dry, and tasted of victory. God, he was a genius. He was  _ actually _ a genius!

Waiting was torture. Flug already had his order waiting, finger hovering over the button to send it off the second he could. When he got the ring of an incoming message, he didn’t even wait to read it, excitedly sending his order off. Thank God he had assumed correctly.

For the wait of the actual order itself, he carried on his previous business. Hanging his laundry, soaking in the grey water for a few minutes. After drying off and dressing again, he took a small pause. He listened, wary of every possible little noise, any sign of needing to abort the current mission. Every creak of the house and every unnatural stretch of silence was concerning. He eased the spikes of worry, keeping a constant eye on the trek of his fresh meal.

Finally, after several false starts, the time for action. The little icon of the car on the screen came before the actual vehicle rolled slowly into view. Flug held his breath expectantly. The driver, from what he could see, was perplexed, as he came to a stop. Flug threw open the window, waving frantically as he approached, staring down at his phone.

“Ah -- here! Please, just… just walk over here?”

It took a few seconds for the man to connect what was happening, and where the sound was coming from. Flug let out an overjoyed sound when they made eye contact, the delivery man taking justified pause at the gate.

“No, no, it’s okay! If you could walk over and put it in the -- right here, please?”

Flug gave a gesticulated shake of his pulley system. It took another minute for the delivery man to overcome his hesitation. But a need to follow orders won out. He treaded carefully forward, looking around and Flug slumped onto the window sill, sighing in relief. He could practically convince himself that he could smell the food from here, watching the delivery man’s pace relax, his gaze slowly beginning to center.

That was when the delivery man suddenly froze, his gaze frozen straight forward, at the back door of the Manor.

… oh. Oh, no.

At first, it seemed to happen in slow motion. Flug had no visual, but he could imagine what the delivery man was seeing, judging by the way the blood drained from his face. A whimper escaped Flug’s throat, as his Saviour cursed, before making a complete 180, and booking it for the gates. The food fumbled from his hands, hitting the pavement with a wet splattering. Flug’s stomach groaned in mourning.

As the gates slammed shut, Flug was shaken from his stupor. Oh, shit…! The rope!

Hastily, he began to pull his stupid -  _ stupid _ little pulley system up. He had made it long enough to reach the ground floor, and it took forever. After a few feet of progress, though, he was almost pulled out of the window himself by the vicious yank from the other end. With a grunt, he dug in his heels, straining to continue pulling back. Eventually, he heard the sound of fabric tearing, and was thrown back by his own force. He could could hear a similar thud outside the window, and was back up almost immediately in an adrenaline-fueled rush, pulling in what was left of his rope, and slamming the window shut.

Flug’s legs shook like gelatin, his heart racing. He tried taking deep breaths, only to choke on his own inhalations. His ears were ringing, the corners of his vision black, and the hunger,  _ the hunger _ , held a knot in his stomach that he was beginning to think he’d never fix.

Sitting down, he sluggishly untangled what was left of his rope, salvaging mostly blankets, and some shirt. A boon that meant nothing in light of what he’d lost in both physical terms and dignity.

 

He felt tears. He felt numb. He quietly laid himself back down, just under the window sill, unable to chase away the idea of prying eyes. He was exhausted. He did not want to sleep. Didn’t want to deal with strange nightmares, didn’t want to deal with the waking nightmare his life had become. Eventually, he found himself needing to make no decision either way. He just laid there, staring into space, and making no further movements. If he passed out, it was by no particular effort. Just his body shutting itself down, as he fought to keep his eyelids open.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

And the next day - silence.

Flug awakened - not with the nightmares he was so concerned about, or with pain. Only with that startle of fear, as though your own body has become suspicious of the amount of rest it’s getting. He fumbled for his phone, blinking slowly at the time. It seemed he’d managed to sleep through the rest of the day, and well into noon of the next.

He’s almost as terrified of this revelation as he was of the assault beforehand.

His metabolism hasn’t fully roused yet, and he takes advantage of that for now. Quietly,he stands, checking around the room to make sure nothing’s changed. No sign of entry, no disturbances. The window is still shut, and unbroken. The clothes he’s hung to dry are pleasantly lacking in moisture - though a bit dry and abrasive from the lack of fabric softener, and good soap. One puzzle has been jostled, some pieces dropping down, but he’s certain that’s more from yesterday’s little stunt than any other factors.

Just as he begins to set his mind at ease, the ringing of an alarm disturbs his train of thought.

The sound knocks around in his skull. It’s loud, it’s jarring, and it makes it hard for him to think. The ringing seems to be coming from two different locations - a vague point somewhere downstairs, and from his phone. He fumbles with the closest source of the racket, trying to silence it, and finding it impossible. Unlocking the screen only accompanies the shrill sound with an alert he isn’t allowed to dismiss.

‘Shelter Breached: Malefactor Loose’

It takes an admitted moment for the haze to clear. As if the words won’t process, or he simply doesn’t  _ want _ them to. But by the point that it just begins to dawn on him, he’s already tripping over himself to get to the door. In his rush, he almost falls headfirst down the stair, hyperventilating as he clings to the banister for support, sliding along it with each step.

“Fuck,” he wheezes eloquently. “Fuck, fuck, oh,  _ fuck _ …!”

The din of the alarm gets louder when he gets closer to the desktop downstairs. He quickly grabs a spare bag from one of the hallway drawers, sliding it on as he gives a rushed examination of the house. It does indeed seem to be empty. His teeth are grit, hands around his ears. The desktop is flashing the same alert, demanding his action. He ignores it, darting outside towards the front gate.

Despite his quick response, there doesn’t seem to be any immediate sign of Black Hat. Flug doesn’t know what he expected. His steps slow as he approaches the gate. When he nears them, he braces onto the bars, trembling.

He’d left. Not only that, but he’d left without  _ Flug _ .

What was he going to do? What would H.A.L.O. do to  _ him _ ? They certainly wouldn’t have an excuse to let him stay in the manor anymore. He’d likely be deported to the same facility as 5.0.5. And…. oh, God, what would he say to  _ Demencia _ ??

He couldn’t even start to find any good in finally being moved from this husk of nostalgia. This wasn’t what he wanted. This wasn’t the outcome he’d hoped for. He finally lets his legs give way, sliding down to a crouch, choking on his own breathes as he hangs his head. He stares, forlorn, at the pavement, at every little crack, the ants crawling past him, the small drip of ichor sliding towards his ---

 

 

 

 

Hm.

  
  
  
  
  
  


His arms don’t stop trembling. The liquid is similar to blood. It’s color, however, is dark, and somewhat reflective. Almost like oil, but much thicker.  _ Viscous _ , even. Black Hat may not have ever given in to his excited requests for some physical probing, but he couldn’t think of any other source to something like this. The drip leads to a puddle, and it’s source confirms his suspicion. A clawed, slightly pallored black finger, lying in the middle of it. The flesh where it’s been detached detached indicates a rough separation, as if chewed off. Flug’s thoughts are numb, and his reach like molasses, and picks up the finger between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it in through the gaps of the gate.

The alarms came to a sudden, deafening halt, and Flug turned to look over his shoulder. Along the pavement, from the direction he’d come, there was a trail of the ichor that he had overlooked in his panic. A steady drip that let him back into the house, like poisoned bread crumbs.

And suddenly, the hungry gaze of death which he’d staved off this long had a face to which he could connect it. It was the void of a suddenly pitch black house, visible from the yawning maw of the open door. It was his reflection in the windows, looking in on drawn curtains, blocking out any outside light.

Head throbbing, stomach aching, knees knocking, Flug slowly began to trudge back inside. When he reached the threshold, he hesitated for just a moment. Experimentally, he flicked the switch a few times. The house remained staunchly dark, the click of the switch echoing hopelessly, hollowly, forcing Flug to continue, doing his best to keep himself in the thinning line of light emanating from the door.

It was straight from a goddamn slasher flick, complete with the drumming refrain of his pulse in his ears. Just as Flug began to toddle towards the end of the light, carefully toeing the fade into shadows, he heard something behind him, soft, the stealthy padding of balanced steps on carpet. Before he can make a run for it, the door slams behind him, leaving him in complete darkness.

Flug rushed to think, before the adrenaline removed that privilege. The blackout had to have been Black Hat messing with the wiring. Back-up generators, managed by H.AL.O., would be kicking in soon - about ten minutes, if Flug’s memory of the lectured protocols served correctly. Until then. Black Hat would be physically incapable of leaving the house - something that ten minutes before would have been a relief. Now, in current context, it was an absolute nightmare.

There was more noise in the blindness, this time on Flug’s right, and sounding much too close for comfort. Flug skitters, panicked, pressing his back to the nearest wall, breathing heavily as he waits for his eyes to adjust. He has no way of knowing if he fluid motions he sees, slinking through the shadows, are trackings of actual movement, or mere illusions created by the spikes of fear in his panicked mind. He braces himself regardless, with a thought process somewhere along the lines of ‘better safe than sorry’.

Sucking in a steady breath, he begins to edge himself along the wall. A rough map runs through his head, where each gap in the wall that he reaches should lead, hands flailing to quickly reach the other end when he ventures into open space. The brief panic of first finding nothing pales in comparison to the absolute terror as his hands brush against something soft, but course - akin to a heavy, woolen black jacket. A high-pitched, shameful sound escaped the doctor, and he recoiled back to his starting point, at the other wall. When nothing seemed to pursue him, he began to reluctantly slink on with the contour, backtracking along the other end of the wall.

So he was taking the long way around. If his mental mapping was correct, he should currently be somewhere in the kitchen. Ah, lovely. He wondered how many unwashed knives were waiting for him on the counter. His fingers were slow and soft, feeling along the convex of (possibly) the counter, jerking back at every sign of a fine edge, a deadly point. At one point, his hand draws reflexively back into something else, knuckles making a dull knock that slides the object back. He can feel the object falling before it’s even reached the edge of the counter, and his fingers grasp desperately to try and catch it, failing as they only slid over sleek metal, which came ringing down upon the hard floors of the kitchen.

The sound stabbed at Flug’s ear drums, completely shattering any fight or flight instincts, making him want to drop down to the floor himself, smashing his hands over his ears, shuddering. The whole house at this point was trying to kill him, and at this point he was practically just waiting to be swooped upon, torn to shreds.

Yet still, even as he gave it a moment, nothing happened.

Flug’s eyes clenched shut. He kept them that way for one second, two, three. When he opened them again, he stared forward, along the seemingly unending stretch of vague wall he still had to trek. Just a few feet from him, there was a  vague shape of light that was most likely the heavy dining room curtains. The illumination, however soft, assaulted his dilated pupils that had slowly begun to adjust to this veil.

Why was he doing this?

He would be concerned about his silhouette being apparent against the backdrop of light, but knew sensibly that the cover of darkness was probably doing nothing to protect him. He was almost certain Black could see him,  _ smell him _ anywhere he chose to go. He was being toyed with, Black Hat biding his time.

Kneeling down, Flug fumbled to find the saucepan, setting it back up onto the counter. He stayed glued to that location for a moment, as if inviting any sort of punishment that could stop the impulse boiling in his gut. He practically prayed for the sign, if for not other reason than to instill a bit of sense. But it did not come, and finally, he rose.

He moved forward, not with confidence, but with determination, an extra ounce of courage. He was prepared to draw the curtains, his knuckles almost white as he gripped upon the cloth, ready to rip it aside. And just as he began the movement, the back-up power flickered back on. Flug could feel eyes upon him, and he turned round, facing the table. Over the stretch of wood, sitting across from him, was Black Hat - hands folded, ichor dripping onto the table below them. An emptied plate was set to his side, stained with dried bits of food. His face was drawn into an unreadable, flat expression. The bloody stump of his finger twitched, the only break of any emotion.

“Dr. Flug,” he purred. “So good of you to join me.”

Flug continued to hold onto that small ball of confidence, deep in his chest, straining, pressing. Finally, it burst, and Flug opened his arms, a tired, welcoming motion.

“Do it,” he dared weakly. “Just… enough games. Do it. Kill me.”

He’d never seen Black Hat’s face drop so suddenly. The sudden plea seemed take him by surprise, strangely enough. He straightened up, nearly rising from his chair, face twisting in distaste. “Kill you,” he echoes, slowly.

“Please?” Flug emphasizes. His arms drop, and he pulls out his char, slumping bonelessly into it. “ _ Please _ ? I’ve had my will written for years, it’s… it’s all going to 5’s. I mean, if the repeal ever goes through. I think I named you as the manager of funds, but it’s his. Just --  _ please _ . Just this  _ one _ mercy.”

Black Hat only looks more and more stunned, more and more angry as Flug goes on. When he finishes, there’s a moment of silence where neither of them knows what to say. Black Hat’s mouth eventually opens wide, expelling an almost pained, angered,  _ cruel _ laugh.

“And what makes you think you’ve earned that privilege,” he sneers. Flug can feel him jump in his seat as the doctor slams his open palms onto the table. He himself winces at the unexpected sting.

“What do you want from me?! I’ve had -- ! I’ve had ONE JOB in the past month or so, and you won’t even follow through on making me for pay for breaking THAT! Wh-what are you even trying to GET from me anymore?!”

“You have a contract with me, Flug,” growled the other man, starting to lose his patience. His hands braced into into the table, scraping in agitation. Flug could once again feel the grooves being carved out from under his own fingernails. “Did you think you could just run away from that? You have a  _ job _ , doctor, and I’ll see to it that you won’t back out on me!”

“What  _ JOB _ ,” Shrilled Flug, throwing his arms up in frustration. Black Hat snarled at the noise, lunging in closer to Flug, teeth gnashing. Flug challenged the bestial action by leaning in closer as well, hands grabbing at his bag in frustration, in panic. “Sir, we’ve DISSOLVED! We  _ LOST _ ! They took 5.0.5., they took Demencia, and I was stupid enough to broker a deal so they could leave me HERE, to watch everything else rot away! To watch you w-wither away and -- !”

 

“W͞a̍͐̒ͤ̂͐̒t̵͆̏́̄̅̔ch ̢̃yͤ̍ͤo̊̄ͦu͞r̀̒̑̓͂͆́ ẗͤ̅ͯ͌ͪ҉o̒͐ͮñ̷͊g̎̓̓uͭ͐͑̾e,” Black Hat hissed, words beginning to become garbled in incomprehensible rage. Flug laughed, manic, nervous, only leaning in closer.

“Y-you stubborn,  _ stupid _ idiot! You’re really going to deny it?! You’re standing in a TAR PIT, and you just want to act like it’s all part of the plan!”

 

“ _ Watch your T̢̢̂̈́̿ͬ̉̿ͬO͛͐͏͠N̡̛̒͌G̸̿̑͟͞U͑̽͏Ë́ͯ̊̉͜͞ _ ,” snapped Black Hat once more, suddenly only inches from Flug’s face, grasping again at his shirt, murder gleaming in his eyes. “ _ O̞͍̯̱͔̘r͕̫̩̕ ̸̻̫̪I҉̰̪̹̦͇̰͖'̹̙͖̣̩̯̕l͎̠͕͍̬͝l̝̻̲̹̗̯͓ ͇͓͢t҉̤̬̲͍̖̹ę̻͙a͇͍͖̮͎̻r̜̪̻̱̹͜ ̭̻̗͔͍i̜̕t͕͖͕͎̥ ̖̹̣͙̪̜ọ̹̱̫̯̰̕u̠̦̻̺͎̫t̠̥ ̖̝͇ḁ̙̺͕͝n͙͚̦̦̯̝d͉̘̤͙̼͢ F̶͚͎̬̼E̙̠̙͚̰͈͘ͅE̙̝̣̬̲͉̦D̦̗̩̞͈̗̕ ̳I̲T̖ t҉ͅo͈̱̜͎͚ y͙̺̻̩̮͘ou̦̞͘,̪͕͙̹̖ ̡̮̠͔y̷͉̠o͖̠̣̰̤͔u ̘̖̤̠̤̭a̬͈̯rṛ͉ͅo̜̙g̳͕̜a̲̘̞̬͖̝̯n̤ṯ̡̠ -- ! _ ”

 

“Shall I cook it for you, sir?” responded Flug, sardonic, as his body melted into Black Hat’s grip, like a rag doll.

Dissociation was a strange thing. To suddenly feel as though you were not occupying your own body, controlling your own actions, was unique. He felt more as though he were some outside force, dangling his body like bait, tempting Death. It was powerfully powerless, and when he tried to seek out the brakes, he didn’t seem to have any.

Like a fine, taut thread, Black Hat snapped. The last bit of self preservation that Flug had left could only muster a flinch, an involuntary reaction of his arms rising up in front of him in laughable defence. The alarm began blaring again, and as claws dug into Flug’s skin, he dwelt dully on this fact. The demon seemed oblivious, pulling Flug across the table, readying himself to claw off the man’s face. Flug could just barely see the message, warning of a breach, flashing on the computer screen.

‘Huh,’ thought Flug, as out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something hurtling towards the both of them. ‘That’s interesting.’

Black Hat, too lost in his anger to notice, was knocked to the side. Flug would have been dragged with him if the person that had done it hadn’t ripped him away, gripping him uncomfortably by the nape of his neck. Struggling weakly, Flug just barely slipped away before he was grabbed again, and slammed onto the kitchen floor. He wheezed as a weight straddled onto him, a rather tall, deceptively lanky hero with toned arms, and eyes wide with rage.

“You,” he seethed, through tightly grit teeth. Flug whimpered.

He was in rather traditional garb; the skin-tight suit, flashy color, a cape. Bright orange, licking upwards into white, seemed to imply… pyrokinesis, Flug would guess? And sure enough, as Black Hat shook off the stupor, starting back forward with a lurch and a roar, he was stopped by woven bands of flame, caging him into the other end of the kitchen. Flug’s blood ran cold, as he looked up at his new captor.

“... m-maybe we could… speak this over?,” suggested he, meekly. The young man unsheathed a blade on his utility belt in response.

“You have  _ nothing _ I want to hear,” he responded voice trembling with rage. “ _ Nothing _ can make up for what you did to my brother.”

Vengeance seekers - the absolutely least rational type of hero. Oh, God, Flug didn’t even remember who this guy was. Just some loose end he must have left, a forgotten memo to check for possible living relatives. There was nothing he could do now but begin kicking and screaming absolute  _ bloody murder _ , doing his best to thrash himself out from under the hero, but the young man had too solid of a grip. Terrified eyes sought those of his Boss, imploring for his protection, wondering why he hadn’t already rushed to protect his own personal property. Surely he was just flexing to disembowel this intruder!

But Flug’s heart only sank, as his gaze settled on the Demon - still trapped behind the flames. A million emotions cycled through Flug. Anger, confusion, terror; nothing so disconcerting as when he finally locked eyes with Black Hat and saw.

Wide eyes. Mouth drawn tight, pupils darting wildly, posture lowered defensively. Like an animal caught in a bear trap, Black Hat was  _ terrified _ . And when he looked to Flug, saw the knife being brought down toward his chest, that terror seemed to envelop his body language in a blanket of defeat.

Flug felt the absolutely unique, indistinguishably stinging sensation of a _knife_ in his _chest_. It completely, _absolutely, FUCKING_ _hurt_ , and the worst part was that this _child_ apparently was too busy patrolling the crime-ridden streets to finish biology classes, because he had _completely_ missed any vital organs. ‘Lovely,’ thought Flug, woozily, as the knife slid out. ‘Long and painful death. Good. I probably earned this.’

As the knife was brought down again for another stab, there was the loud, ringing sound of a gunshot. The knife never made contact, and the Pyrokinetic buckled, crying out in pain as he gripped at his shoulder, sobbing loudly. Flug saw the fire wall ( _ ‘Haaha!,’ cried his delirious brain, hysterical,)  _ come down, but Black Hat did not yet move forward. Instead, like the stricken beast he’d become, he pressed fearfully to the nearest wall, snarling. Flug stared, dazed, at the ceiling, feeling his own blood start to gush and soak his clothing. The pounding of heavy boots surrounded him, as he heard loud, official-sounding voices, amidst the crackle of radio static.

“ -- secured the Intruder. Malefactor Beta is bleeding heavily. Sedating him now, Uriel in charge of stabilization.”

“Malefactor Alpha inside quarters. Injury on left hand, looks to be self-inflicted. Should we treat him as well?”

“Negative. Trust me, that thing can manage on it’s own. Focus on the Doctor. Lady Maria’ll have someone’s head if he’s anything below  _ immaculate _ .” A sardonic snort, and the vague, fuzzy shape of someone standing above Flug. “Move him to the Lab. Someone go and get me --”

Everything began to fade out, at the sensation of a pinprick on the side of Flug’s neck. The anesthesia, he presumed. He was a bit too woozy from blood loss to really think on it. There were too many people around him, too many hands upon him, pulling at his clothes, grabbing at his bag. He gurgled out Black Hat’s name, overwhelmed, trying to reach out, but finding his arms restrained. And just as it all faded to dark --  
  
  
  


~*~

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


\-- the anesthesia acted quickly. Flug, for a moment, flailed in desperation, fighting against the straps holding him to the stretcher they’d hoisted hm onto. Then, weakly, tiredly, his movements ceased, as he became blissfully still.

The outfitted troupe of H.A.L.O. agents lifted him, taking him away towards the back of the house. Startled finally from his frozen… shock, Black Hat took a moment to process what was happening. As the team disappeared around the corner, he snarled, stalking after them.

“You put my goddamn Doctor down this instant! Anyone going to explain why you can’t even keep a damn prison safe?! How do you expect me think you can keep and idiot with no self-preservation alive?!

He followed them to the Lab, cursing in tongues, before one of them departed from the group, standing guard at the entrance, looking to the approaching Eldritch with thin lips of exasperation. The door closed behind him, and Black Hat caught up, straightening up, and bristling at the Sentinel, barely able to keep a proper hold on his current form.

The man in question was somewhat slight. Physically, he was not particularly imposing. His physique was more akin to Flug’s, perhaps even thinner, if there was such a state before reaching just a plain skeleton. He wore a visor that somewhat resembled two pairs of wings, crossed in a way that veiled his eyes. Behind it were the implications of a rather gaunt face, sunken features, and an obvious glare that you could practically feel burning into your skin. This, along with an posture that screamed of arrogance could put off anyone. Otherwise, he was doubly protected by the sigils stamped on his armored vest, which did make Black Hat make one allowed step backwards, physically recoiling in disgust. The man did not react to this, simply speaking up, in a drawled, almost bored sort of tone.

“And a good afternoon to you, sir. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to keep a distance, as not to distract my Unit. But Lady Maria sends her complete assurance - Mr. Slys will be taken very good care of. Or at least better than you’ve kept.”

“Tell the bitch to choke,” growled Black Hat, rather unconversationally. The man gave a haughty, snorting laugh.

“Witty. Maybe instead of wasting your thought on insults, you should be thinking on how you’re going to beg her to continue allowing you as a keeper. Her patience is deep, but not limitless.” He took a gesticulated glance over his shoulder, despite the door being closed. Black Hat could see traces light of some sort of display dancing from behind his visor. “Along with the stab wounds, he seems to be suffering some light signs of malnutrition, cosmetic lacerations, muscle strains, sleep deprivation…”

“ _ I’m not Dr. Flug’s keep _ \-- kee-- rrrrrrrrrnngh--!”

Black Hat faltered, a vicious death stare his conversational placeholder as he struggled for a better term. A smirk played at the edges of the other man’s mouth.

“Clearly. I’ll do a favor and redact that particular piece of conversation - if  _ you  _ do me a favor and vacate the area. Let my team do their job. Sound good?”

As much as Black Hat despised being spoken down to by a man he barely knew, there was not much he could do but glower in his direction. This unfortunately did little to intimidate, and Black Hat was forced to give up, baring his teeth, before huffing and turning away.

The living room was a mess. Outfitted lackeys stomping in and out of the kitchen, cleaning the floor with a bloodied mess of a rag. Black Hat sneered as he stepped cautiously around them, nearly running into someone sweeping up shard of broken glass - presumably from the break-in.

Speaking of…

There was a lot of noise coming down the Hall - the young man that had accosted Flug was being led towards the front door in cuffs, and making an absolute scene. The cuffs Black Hat recognized - a design Flug had patented himself, for the use of disarming troublesome heros. Being used, admittedly, for it’s original purpose, but in the  _ wrong hands _ .

Once again back on the War Path, Black Hat hunched forward, growling, starting forward to give H.A.L.O. a piece of his mind. His mouth opened unnaturally wide, about to put an Eldritch Flair on his words, when he was startled out of it by a scream instead from the Pyrokinetic.

“ _ You should be DEAD _ ,” he choked out past tears, roughly trying to shoulder his way out of the grip of his escorts. Black Hat took and admittedly shameful step back, caught off guard by the amount of fight still in the Hero. It seemed, though, he was not the one whom was expected to respond, as the young man jerked back to face the other men. “ _ They should be DEAD, and she’s just KEEPING them here! I want ANSWERS, we deserve ANSWERS! _ ”

“Keep moving,” grunted the man on his right, pulling him forward viciously, marching unabashed towards the door. His protests broke, and he collapsed into broken, quiet sobs as he was marched out. A normally lovely sound to Black Hat’s ears, but he found himself strangely not in the mood. Agitated by the multitude of strangers in his home, Black Hat decided to retire to his study.

This had been… a very long day.

Upstairs was quiet. No heroes. No soldiers. When he entered his study, it was empty and dark, the blinds still closed. Black Hat opened them wide, keeping a watch on H.A.L.O. as they flooded in and out of his house, with medical supplies, equipment - enough things to set up a temporary base. They would not be leaving soon.

Wheeling the chair to face the window, Black Hat sat down, watched, and waited.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter is a little short for the wait, but i hope everyone enjoys!!

10 p.m. - Black Hat Manor, temporarily revived by the hustle and bustle of it’s particularly hectic morning antics, slowly begins to settle back down. The lights of neighboring homes still peek through their blinds, terminal curiosity desperate to catch a glimpse of outfitted saviours, whom slowly pack up and vacate the towering house.

The home itself is, in contrast, mostly dark, indicative of it’s pseudo-abandoned status. Only a single light remains on, somewhere within it’s upper levels. And for a singular second, the illumination flickers, with a low rumbling as the foundations lightly quake. Neighbor’s blinds quickly snap shut at the sound. And inside, an unshaken man stares down a monster, like a petulant child.

“I take it you have objections,” drawls he, deadpan. Black Hat, aura ablaze, hisses at him.

“ _You will do_ _N̮͔͓ͅO̷̩̥ ̡̤͖̭̳͚S̵̭͈̜U͕͈̜̘̩͘ͅC̶̳͔͖̗̼H̲͍̘ ̫̠̬̣̼T҉̲̼H̵͕̲̟̫̗̬I̦̗NG҉͎̝_ _, you--!_ ”

He pains for a word, seething, hands coming up to grip angrily at the brim of his hat, to resist the urge to swipe at the other man. He has _many_ words in mind, and spews them all out as they occur to him. “ _Mamahuevo, hijo de las_ _m̹̠͕̳̩̲͇͘ị̹l ̝͙̬̯P̟̬͔̮͉͔U̳͈͘T͈̪͔ͅA͈͉͕̹̳S̹̜͙͘-̶̣-̫!̷͉̰̤̣̥!̩̠̗̣_ _”_

“Language _,_ ” responds the gaunt-face soldier, helmet removed, his face scrunching in mock distaste. Black Hat takes in his visage with utter loathing. The glare he had previously perceived was somewhat permanently affixed, derived from the heavily-hooded, brown, almond eyes. He has the stubbling of a moustache that accentuates his sneer of distaste too befittingly. “Do you kiss the underside of whatever sore you spawned from with that mouth?”

Black Hat snarls - _roars_ in response, slamming his hands back down onto the desk, claws making more cracking indents. His form wavers, the other man notes, able to see impossible rows of teeth, hearing fervent whispers of manic voices. He waits patiently, however, and eventually the shifting seemed to tire the Being, who slowly shrinks back down into his chair, chattering in harried tongues, before settling back down into English.

“ _Get the hell out of my house,_ ” he hisses, further aggravating the damage in his desktop. His guest gives a tired sigh.

“I’m sure we’d both be much happier if I did, but as I’ve already explained - it’s out of my hands. Until Dr. Slys’ situation stabilizes, I’m not to go anywhere else. I’m afraid the blood loss was a bit too much stress on him. At the moment, we expect he’ll wake up in a few days. But it’s critical we have at least one man at his bedside, for surveillance.

Black Hat grumbles again, another phrase that did not quite translate into any human tongue. “ _Language_ ,” chides the man once more, a little more sharply. The look Black Hat shoots him could have killed - quite possibly literally, under normal circumstances.

This conversation was going nowhere. Uninterested into feeding into this game, the man sighs, rising from his guest chair. “Obviously you aren’t willing to be civil about this. So let me phrase it another way.”

He leans forward, invading into Black Hat’s space. The Being chitters, snapping his jaw shut into an expression of bared teeth, a bestial grimace. The man does not back away. “Here are the facts. Dr. Slys was allowed to stay under the condition that his presence would keep you from the ‘tempation’ of ‘acting out’. We responded to an escalation of that _precise_ nature, that ended in you screwing around with our equipment, a break-in inspired by revenge and your recent media breakdown, and Dr. Slys in an _Hypoxic coma_.”

The man pauses, for dramatic effect. “Are you aware of how this looks for your case?”

A rhetorical question. The man needed no other answer than Black Hat’s continued, unblinking glare. He sighs, hanging his head, and shaking it in disappointment. “You are not leaving me with many options here,” he groaned, before looking back up. “Perhaps this will create some motivation - Lady Maria and all subsequent H.A.L.O. staff are finding _little reason_ to continue this arrangement. And unless I can report some form of improvement, _you WILL lose it_ , and I _WILL_ be cuffing Dr. Slys and escorting him to the nearest facility the _SECOND_ he blinks awake. You _WILL_ be confined to a single room, in solitary confinement, for life, pending good behavior, which, if we’re being _honest_ , is a _fever dream_.”

His point finally seems to kick at something, Black Hat’s expression falling, the gears turning in that animal brain. Processing the punishment, the reward, mustering that gentlemanly front for a proper response. Tented fingers, an attempt to compose oneself, translate the correct words in his head. The man takes a deep breath, taking his opportunity while he had it.

“... we both know that’s not the most convenient course of action for either of us. There’d be a team of us for the next month, cleaning out the house, making sure you can’t contact the Doctor. But if you behave, I can promise to keep my men out of your way while we are here. And I might even have an opportunity to lean things back into your favor, with a little bit of ‘service’."

“Magnanimous of you,” purrs the Being. The other man doesn’t respond to that, simply letting the thing do it’s little act. It didn’t matter in the end.

“Do you understand that I am offering the absolute, bare _minimum_ to you? I need you to do one thing, and one thing only. And hopefully you won’t have to see us again for a very long time. I expected a businessman to have more appreciation for a bargain.”

The Being has no retort for that. He blinks, before staring, disgruntled, and bringing a cup of some kind of viscous liquid to his lips to slurp. The man’s mouth twists again in distaste.

“... I don’t need an answer now. Sleep on it. If you’d like to cooperate, I’ll see you in Dr. Slys’ lab in the afternoon.”

He exits Black Hat’s office, leaving the beast to his peace once again. Despite the lack of reaction, he has the utmost of faith that _results_ are in the process of being made. All he has to do is wait.

~*~

‘Sleep on it’, the man had said. Sleep was, however, a rare, unfamiliar concept to Black Hat. When he tires of waiting, he steps from his bedroom into the kitchen - stairs being unbecoming and pointless, when one knows the proper inter-dimensional shortcuts.

A silence pervades the entire house. The sun has yet to rise, and the smell of blood is inescapable from Black Hat’s senses, despite H.A.L.O.’s rudimentary cleanup. He frowns, hovering over where Flug had been attacked. No signs of stains, but no doubt the scent had absorbed into the porous tile. And while normally Black Hat considered that metallic sting to be a welcoming greeting to usher in the day, something about this time is overpowering, and nauseating. The edges of his lip curl in disgust, nose wrinkling, and something in the general vicinity of his rib cage tightening. He does not want to dwell on it, and is quick to dismiss it as the throes of hunger. Material forms tended to have those, did they not? Certainly he too had to be prone. There was a first time for everything, after all.

Black Hat, for the first time in years, was making himself tea. It takes him a large fuss to find where Flug keeps the belladonna, and when he adds it, he adds too much, the taste immensely unsatisfying in comparence to how he usually takes it. He sips at it regardless, and tears at a scrounged-up piece of uncooked meat sitting in the back of the fridge. It’s raw, bloody, and somewhat green, but… satisfactory.

It is not a proud moment. He eats, he waits, he seethes - and the silence gnaws away at something in the back of his gut.

‘Here are the facts’, he states to himself with a mocking sort of sneer.

While not a fan of the petulant cacophony of incompetent idiots, pure silence makes Black Hat ~~uneasy~~

 

 

… it troubles him.

Silence is a sound of absence. Absence of fear, absence of loyalty. A peon’s trembling inquiries, the stuttering heartbeat of an insect wracked with terror; these were sounds that could inspire a true sense of elation, a job well done.

Sadly, Black Hat caught little wind of this feeling as of late. He had made do, instead, with the barely restrained frustration of someone who - as he was forced to begin to acknowledge - _no longer feared him_.

The clock chimes. Ten o’ clock. 12 hours since he was given the choice to cooperate. Two hours before he was expected in Flug’s lab, for whatever goddamn reason. He licked at the blood on his lips in agitation, and throws back the rest of his tea. Fingers brush once along the glass of the teapot Flug had bought him, and he strides, with purpose, towards the back of the house.

It was inevitable, Black Hat considered, with a forced, clinical approach. He had known this sickening revelation would come someday.

It had started with pity. H.A.L.O.’s second-in-command coming into the quarantine chamber they’d walled him into, informing him snidely ( _snidely, with that SNEER, he HATED that man’s face --!_ ) that despite their previous consideration, he would not be serving his sentence alone. When they’d finally let him out, he’d found Flug. Waiting nervously with a pot of tea, some eggs ( _sunny-side up, crackling in oil, he remembered this, why did he remember this...?_ ), and greeting him with a stammered hello.

A far cry from the man laughing maniacally in his face, spouting off things that had eaten him alive, with relative, guiltless ease. A man Black Hat knew had always lurked behind the sniveling, flimsy countenance, but who had never dared to show his face before in his Lord’s presence.

 

 

The door is guarded. Not by the arrogant Commander, but a more fresh-faced young whelp that Black Hat vaguely recognized from their droves He looks nervous at Black Hat’s very presence, spine straightening, blue eyes staring intently into space, lips drawn into a tight, nervous line. Black Hat lets out a vague, rolling growl as he passes, relishing in the flinch before he enters the lab, braced for whatever may come.

As of the H.A.L.O. raid, there had not been much need for Black Hat to enter Flug’s lab. In itself, it had mostly just become Flug’s second room. It’s emptiness has no real impact upon the Demon, other than a sense of… disappointment. Half-completed weapons and gadgets were long gone, and now replaced by strangely sterile equipment, as of this moment. Black Hat presumed their purpose to be medical, but hardly possessed the knowledge on specifics. The lack of anything else in the room is punctuated by the man that lays motionless, within the center of it. Black Hat steps over to his side, stoic over the fragile being.

Flug, for the most part, is uncovered. Not only by the stripped upper-garments he usually covered his pale, sad body with, but also of his usual bag. Out of a vague awareness of social constructs, Black Hat finds himself veering his gaze, choosing to instead leer in and examine The Damage. Some stitching held together messy lacerations, which he prods at in enraptured, morbid fascination. As he continues to trace the haphazard line, broken in places by older scars, fingers pass over scabbed punctures in the man’s arms; a set of five on one side, four on the other. Black Hat’s face felt a flush of... disdain, realizing how the marks lined up with his grip. He usually made more of an effort to be _much_ more careful with his thing. But had that Hero come in just a moment later…

Imagination ran wild, and the man felt awash with bloodlust, losing mild grip on his corporeal form. The gashes, he envisions with pleasure, would have been wider, more symmetry, more _GRACE_. He grips a little tighter onto the man, onto what little meat he can gather in the scrawny arms. Flug wouldn’t even be able to fight back, he would be --

A pause, pregnant with the slow-turning wheels of revelation.

As pathetic as Flug was, and as much as Black Hat tended to trod all over his intelligence (couldn’t have him too full of himself), Flug was not a stupid man. He had to have known, as he’d antagonized Black Hat, that a mere flex on the other’s behalf could reduce him to bloodied chunks.

Alarmed, Black Hat releases the arm in his hold, taking note of the irritated red imprint it leaves in it’s wake. Black Hat, a being not easily shaken, has a realization that had not occurred to him before: that when you lay the foundation of fear in a man, based mostly in the idea of how easily he can be killed, that you run the risk not in him dismantling it, but rather of him using those walls to mark his own grave.

Mortals were fragile. This, Black Hat had known. But his failure to heed any cautions to this had now put his self-interests at risk. If Flug had died, if he had lost Flug...

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

... they would have a talk about this when Flug awoke.

There was still some time before H.A.L.O.’s Commander was supposed to be meeting with him. Black Hat gives a defeated growl, dragging a chair to Flug’s bedside. He sits, arms and legs crossed with a taut, palpable frustration, leaning just slightly onto Flug’s bed for support.

~*~

It was said, he believed, that creative minds tended to have organizational skills. A sad, sad symptom of the Fantastical Personality type.

That being said, Dr. Flug Slys had to be quite the Fantastical type, for H.A.L.O.'s Commander to have so much of a mess to sift through.

The smell was the worst part of it. Not that the Doctor had a particular odor that clung to him. He was a scientist, and presumably kept himself relatively well-groomed. But the gathering of dust, dirt, food crumbs, all contributed to a pungent odor that had the man clicking his tongue in distaste. He was going to need a lot of goddamn time to really get any work done.

Which meant it was a good damn thing that things were falling perfectly into line.

The buzz of a radio came a little earlier than expected - the nervously soft voice of his subordinate buzzing in. "Azrael? Sir? Um, the -- the Malefactor arrived, he's... um, awaiting instruction, Sir!"

A whelp. The kid was a fairly new recruit, a light-eyed young man desperate to join H.A.L.O. and beat back some bad guys, but still lacking in the confidence department. Certainly nowhere near prepared to be assigned the the case of H.A.L.O.'s most High Profile 'Rehabilitation' Project. The Commander - Azrael - indulges in a somewhat cruel bout of laughter. Composing himself, a finger on his temple, he buzzes back in.

"Ease up, Paschal. Keep on standby. I'll give you a message to pass on to him later."

Then his little pep talk had worked. Glad to see the Demon had his priorities straight. Early retirement made him desperate. Much easier to work with.

This was going to be a cake walk. If Azrael kept up this progress, there might even be a promotion in line. While he tried not to put all his eggs in one basket, he believe a certain level of optimism and confidence was necessary.

The lab had already been cleaned out. There was a box in Azrael's vehicle with one of their old cameras. Tricky bastard. He doubted the Doctor had managed to hide away anything else as important, but took a cursory sweep regardless, upturning everything in the room, upsetting puzzles and biscuit wrappers. When that turned up nothing, he sat himself down for a breather.

That was it. All the standard procedure out of the way. And with any luck, a few days to get the  _real_ work down.

He cracked his knuckles with determination, and dove in.

~*~

Black Hat wonders when exactly his life began to revolve so heavily around this ever-moving, ever-important ritual of _breakfast_. Either way, it positions itself now to Flug’s bedside.

The Commander had never seen fit to actually meet with him, as it was. Instead, it was his lackey that arrived, trembling as he informed Black Hat this was his new job. Attending to Flug, keeping an eye on him, his health, his general presence. It was not an ideal job, and he was quick to spit at it, for the sake of image.

… that did not stop him the next morning from making his food, his tea, and bringing in both, with an accompanying morsel, in the event Flug should join him. He also this time brought a few extra supplies, purely under the annoyance at feeling as though he couldn’t look directly at his Doctor, and set upon fixing that.

The bag is the easiest thing to settle. The goggles, perhaps, are a bit troubling to try and fit on without disturbing the mask they had affixed to him, regulating his oxygen. But the bag itself slides over it without too much trouble, at the very least to an extent the man wouldn’t worsen his condition with that pitiful, rattling hyperventilation he got when panicked. Black Hat pats himself upon the back for this particular victory, with a small, dark tentacle that emerged from his shadow.

The exposed upper body is a whole other damn concern. Black Hat had dug through the damp laundry in the bathroom until he’d found some of Flug’s clothing that didn’t smell _quite_ as disgusting as the rest. The shirt, he thinks, with a grunt of consideration, he could _maybe,_  perhaps be able to slide on. Perhaps removing that mask for a split second? The undergarment, however, always seemed to be more importantly stressed upon by the Doctor. The undergarment was important. The undergarment was good. Flug would be pleased to wake up knowing that was present.

Black Hat is about ready to play a complicated game of working around the equipment, before a begrudging awareness dawns upon him. Compression and pressure, to his vague medical knowledge, tends to be, in clinical terms, _bad_ . Certainly, it was a  _wonderful_  tool in torture, in what it did to wounds. But he supposes it was somewhat lacking in interests of recovery.

This leaves Black Hat standing over Flug, eyes blank in an embarrassing amount of thought. Eventually, a compromise is reached, as Black Hat covers Flug with a blanket, vaguely folding his clothing before tossing it somewhere accessible for whenever Flug awakens. A somewhat less enthusiastic pat on the shoulder for that accomplishment. But he decides, he's done his best, placing the small plate of food politely upon Flug’s chest, and sitting beside him to read.

And this was how this second day was spent. Again, complete silence, broken occasionally by the rustling of Black Hat’s paper. Studiously, he pored over it, a distraction from the hours that passed, eyes sliding towards Flug every so often, at every slight whimper, every light twitch.

In silence, he wonders if Flug dreams. In dreaming, he wonders how aware of his presence the man was.

On the third day, he tests this. The morsel of yesterday was pointless, devoured bitterly by Black Hat when he retired at the end of the day. But of course, he brings another plate, placing it in the vague crease the last one had left in the blankets. This time, his attention on the paper is broken frequently by concentrated stares upon Flug. Mindless murmuring is given response, of hushed, maddening chattering in Inhuman Tongues. Like speaking to a restless animal, with gentle assurance.

It stays at just this for awhile. Until a point when Flug almost seems to respond; a particularly pointed, almost distressed babbling, of a Dreamer, of Terror. Black Hat folds his paper, head tilting, shoulders tense. Experimentally, he runs the point of a claw, gently, carefully along Flug’s arm, in the closest to what he could imagine as a soothing, barely-there pattern.

Whether it was related or not, Flug does quiet, breath deepening, evening out. The incident does not repeat with as much fervor, Black Hat able to return to his paper with peace. Yet Black Hat still begins to respond to any vague noise with the same motion, managing, _soothing_.

That tightness returns, and Black Hat tears anxiously at his breakfast to silence it.

~*~

In silence, Black Hat becomes irritable.

He brings his offering, places it in it’s same spot. He quiets Flug’s mindless unease. And he wonders aloud.

“Haven’t seen that Bastard, Doctor. I don’t believe for a damn second he’s left! I suppose he’s keeping an eye on us from… somewhere, then, one place or another.”

The speaking doesn’t do much more than fill in the Void. He grunts, before continuing.

“Not that I’m going to pay that any mind. He can do whatever the hell he likes, as long as _stays out of my way_.”

This statement is a little more pointed. If he had a visible point of focus, he’d be glaring at it. Instead, he looks to Flug, claw tracing gently over his skin. He sighs somewhat.

“... this is very selfish of you, Doctor. I am a creature -- no, a _man_ of luxury. And here I am, making my own breakfast, making my own _tea_ , watching over _you, la hostia --!_ ”

He stops, taking in a deep, angry breath, gritting his teeth with an audible grind.

Flug, of course, has little meaningful response, though his breath strains somewhat, rattling. Not much more different than usual. But just enough difference to make Black Hat stare bleakly at his paper with a dour expression, hollow without that meek, familiar title of response. He drags out the tracings of his claw, trying to ease the comatose man back down.

Conversation lightens from there, but continues. Muttering to Flug about the news, about his sickening frustrations. An occasional, stray misplaced comment again about having to provide for himself, how he ~~misses~~  prefers the way Flug does it.

Tea. Breakfast. Morsel. Soothing. Speaking. A habit, a schedule - a nostalgia, cultivated in a hollow space of Black Hat’s chest that a less _intelligent_ , less _wary_ being might describe as an _ache_.

  
  


 

Black Hat takes his time before going down the next day.

He makes Flug’s breakfast ( _wasteful_ ), setting it aside so he can finish his own first. He foregoes tea, instead trying to calm himself with the way the raw blood slips down his throat. Comfort food, a familiarity, like a home-cooked meal. He’d be more ashamed of this comforting indulgence, were there anyone besides H.A.L.O. there to watch.

Speaking of…

The house, he notes, seemed a little empty. More so than of late, at the very least. Black Hat checks the clock, realigning his awareness on the construct of time. The minute hand falls close to noon. He saw neither the Commander, nor the usual guard to the door of the lab. Apparently they’d both now found better things to do.

 

Good riddance.

 

As he devours the rest of the meat, licking his fingers clean, Black Hat can no longer justify lingering. He begins to pack up the tools of his new habit, heading downstairs.

And at last, that feeling, that ache, comes to a culmination as he finds that his Doctor is _gone_.

It takes a moment to process. The plate he’d readied for Flug drops, shattering on the floor, as Black Hat freezes. And as he finally shakes his stunned reaction to the scene he looks upon, he turns on his heel, giving an aggravated _snarl_ . _Maria’s lackey -- !!_ ”

He can’t think of anyone else to blame. Black Hat sees red, his form shifting in discontent as he storms upstairs, seeking out the soldier. _How dare he_ , chanted Black Hat’s thoughts, with growing viciousness, bloodlust. He had done his goddamn part, and here he was, being punished regardless! It wasn’t fair, _it wasn’t fair_ , he's ready to rip, to maim to shred, to feed --- !

 

\-- well. As many of those things as he could manage. He was admittedly determined.

Still, there's no one standing at the entryway back into the house. Black Hat already feels exhausted, gripping at his right arm, but does his best to hold his form. They needed to  _see_ , they needed to be  _afraid_. He pauses, eye wild, looking for any detail, any clue. His head jerks in the direction of the kitchen as he hears someone moving about. With all the countenance of a predator, claws and teeth bared, he roars, advancing, priming himself as he hurdles in, over the table, ready to pounce --

 

 

 

 

\-- he stops. On the table, he's hunched. He draws back somewhat to steady himself, stance widening. His shoulder fall back, but he still feels a tense hold in them, as his gaze hones in on the tired, haggard form, making tea. His clothing - found stashed on a chair he'd found drawn close to his bedside - is stained and wrinkled, but got, he felt so relieved to find it. He takes the glass pot, it's contents filled with the bloom of the tea, and sets it gingerly onto the table, before looking up at Black Hat, tired.

"... morning,  _Jefecito."_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of marks the end of the first little arc! Next chapter will be a little more fluffy <3 then we'll be getting into some more drama! Thank you everyone for reading!!

A buzz had overtaken Flug’s entire being - his thoughts a mess of static, the only thing overpowering it being the sizzle of oil, and the strong smell of eggs.

Morning. Breakfast.

Flug’s hands are shaky as he pushes the egg, sunny side up, around the pan. The kettle on the stove whistles, cutting through everything else. Eyes aching from lack of rest, he jumps, squeaking, before rubbing the back of his neck in wincing shame. ‘ _Calm down_ ’, he has to scold himself. ‘ _It’s going to be okay. Just a setback. He’ll fix this. It just needs time, patience._ ’.

The kettle comes off of the stove, the whistling gently dying down. He can feel the water radiating off the stream of water as it pours into the teapot, and he deeply inhales the lovely smell of leathery, dried black berries and shriveled herbs. The pot is lidded and set gently at the head of the table, next to buttered toast.

Time. Patience. Okay, yes. He understands these concepts, yet can’t help but to wonder _how_ long. The waiting makes him anxious. He hasn’t seen the man in so long, and finds himself worried about his condition - even more so over the fact this hasn’t been something he’s _had_ to worry about.

His newfound attendants do not help. They do not answer his questions, and that one particular supervisor gives Flug a horrible feeling in his gut. The only information he’d managed to wheedle out of them was that the decision was pending on his recent proposition, and to wait for Black Hat.

Oil and eggs. It burns in Flug’s nose. Just as he gently slides the egg onto a plate, he hears a low growl behind him, and whips around nervously to meet it, spine straightening.

“... m-morning, _Jefecito_.”

He takes in that visage, this epitome of terror and evil. And almost immediately, he’s reeling.

Black Hat looks - well. Physically, not that much off, though he seems to be somewhat tenderly nursing his right arm, rubbing at it sorely as he scowls at Flug, not saying anything in response. But there’s something in the way his eyes dart around, like a trapped animal overwhelmed by it’s captive environment. He doesn’t give much else away, sniffing indignantly as his eyes slide to take in the egg. He turns around, seeing the tea and bread. And finally, he speaks, voice hoarse, gravelly, and satisfyingly familiar.

“... Doctor.”

They both sit. Black Hat rips into breakfast with vigor, right arm hanging, teeth gnashing as his left hand shovels food into it. Flug slowly cuts his eggs with a knife and fork, silently observing. He wants to say something, anything. He’s anxious to hear the plan. How they’re going to get out of this, how they’re going to _win_. But it will have to wait until they’re under less surveillance. Surely, after a month or so, H.A.L.O. will let down it’s guard. And Black Hat will have a plan. Flug can wait until then. Wait and listen.

Black Hat finishes, starting to lick at his fingers, eyes continuing to roam wildly. He growls again.

“... the other two. Should I be expecting them to ruin my appetite soon, with their…?”

His hand gestures wildly for a word to summarize his underwhelming expectations, the usual shenanigans. Something hot and molten drops to the bottom of Flug’s gut. He buys himself some time to think of how to answer by taking another slow bite. He’s staring at the table, knowing Black Hat is glaring daggers, wanting to know why only Flug’s come back to him, the cause to this level of insubordination. He doesn’t know how to explain it isn’t his fault, to convince Black Hat of what he’s barely telling himself. He needs patience. It isn’t his fault. He just need patience. It isn’t his fault, he just needs --

Breathe. He feels as if he can’t breathe, gives a soft, pained noise. Someone is soothing him, soft patterns being traced over his forearm a thin point, uncharacteristically gentle. For a minute, he’s aware of his lab, of the hard surface beneath him. He blinks, once twice, and turns to face it. Looking Demencia in the eye, frowning. Before he can tell her off for being in the lab, she speaks again, in that dust-choked voice from before.

“This isn’t where you thought you’d be,” she informs him, solemn. Flug does not like her eyes. They aren’t right, hollow, and dark.

“He has a plan. I know it, he’s -- he’s _Black Hat_. This can’t be the end.”

“You don’t deserve this,” she perseveres, almost entirely incognizant of the fact he’s spoken. “You don’t have to live like this. You don’t have to stay here.”

His brow furrows deep, that hot shame in his gut worsening, at (not)Demencia’s cold dismissal of his faith. And it only hurts more when he remembers that she’s right.

Flug awakens, and the past year comes crashing down around him. H.A.L.O. The raid. Breakfast, Black Hat, Repeals, Breakfasts, Repeals, _Breakfasts, Repeals, Black, BLOOD, YELLING -- !_

Flug’s body spasms as he sits up, dazed. There’s something over his mouth, that he claws at, breath racing as he finds something blocking him from removing it. It takes a few moments of feeling around his head to realize the obstruction is nothing more than his bag. He slumps, tries a few deep breaths, regathering himself.

He’s in his lab. Set up in a makeshift bed, surrounded by equipment, and a solitary chair, out of place. He’s wearing his bag. He’s wearing an oxygen mask. How did they get it on without taking off his bag...?

It takes an embarrassingly long stretch of time before Flug - Inventor, Genius, Number One _Idiot_ \- puts it together. Bag was taken off. Oxygen mask. Someone… put bag… on again. For. Some reason?

He is grateful. He could admit that. It was only that he can hardly imagine there was some kind-spirited Agent with too terribly much concern for his emotional comfort. Alternatively, he is also lacking in any other candidate. A cursory look around (yelping mildly as the stiff, sterile clinical blanket covering him falls, catching it modestly) reveals that he is, in the present moment, alone. Thoughts are admittedly hazy through the fog of anesthesia. His slow sifting around finds a pile of crumpled laundry. Flug can clearly identify one of his shirts, with a sense of immense relief, and - surprise! - even more confusion. H.A.L.O. _absolutely_ did not do this, and even if they had, they prided themselves too much on their sense of professionalism to not have at least washed it. The thing has a musty smell to it that makes him almost certain it was from the load he had done in the bathroom. And yes, he _is_ , again, grateful that he doesn’t have to go through the rigamarole of stressing over H.A.L.O. going through his personal belongings.

It was only that the alternative is a bit too much for his currently addled brain. He… he needs time to recover.

In complete silence, he slides on his clothes, wincing a little at the pain and tightness. When he’s sure he isn’t once more bleeding copious amounts ( _a nasty habit, it would seem_ ), he drags his feet upstairs, looking nervously around the manor along the way.

Someone new is guarding the basement entrance - or at the very least, it’s someone Flug hasn’t seen before. Fresh-faced, and jumpy as all hell, he doesn’t stop Flug, instead becoming automatically, visibly frantic. His head whips to watch Flug pass, and Flug ignores the telltale anxious semi-reaching of someone too nervous to actually call attention to himself. When Flug continues moving towards the stairs, the young man hastily grabs for his communication device, a panicked whisper urging, “A-Azrael, sir? He’s -- Malefactor B is. Up, coming up??”

_Azrael_. Flug should have known that _prick_ would be here. Blood boiling, he quickens his pace as best as he can. He has an idea of where Azrael will be, but _so help hi_ , he _really_ hopes he’s wrong. He rushes to his bedroom, unimpeded.

‘ _Who the hell do these people think they are_ ’, Flug fumes to himself. This had become too common a scenario for him to bear. These people, these ‘heroes’, constantly shoving themselves where they didn’t belong, trampling over every little thing that made Flug feel at peace, _every_ little thing that Flug considered his _home_. The very fact that they’re able to was enough to make Flug feel as though he would never really feel at home again.

The door swings open as he turns the corner into the hallway. Renewed with the vigor of self-righteousness, Flug pivots his core, preparing for an angry charge. But a burst of speed is suddenly throttled, as Flug remembers, right, _YES_ , how can he have forgotten, that he isn’t the only other resident in the house? That there’s at least one more person, whom Flug is not yet prepared to see again.

The end result of this revelation is a strange sort of… jig, overcoming Flug, halfway between swinging into a heel turn, and throwing himself stumbling forward. A headrush at the sudden burst in activity has him wobbling, then leaning himself against the wall for support, just as Azrael steps out, turning towards the source of the ensuing, _ever-graceful *thud*_. His eyes, on a rare occasion of being uncovered, light up with a barely-restrained _malice_.

“Dr. Slys,” hums the man cordially. Flug glares at him through his own double vision.

“Azrael,” Flug hisses, attempting to fit as much disdain into his voice as possible. It comes out as more of a wheeze, which unfortunately seems to only further delight Azrael.

“Please, Doctor. Let’s keep this professional. Call me Major.”

Professional - right. Flug feels as though he’l vomit. Thought that… might be the pain meds. Not wanting to give the man his satisfaction, he tries his best to look as casually dismissive as possible. He relaxes his stance against the wall, sneering. “Oh! So you finally got that promotion? Congratulations! I was afraid they’d be giving you some actually significant work! But thank goodness I get to see you again.”

He’d thought it a scathing effort, honestly, But he feels defanged and emasculated as he only receives a small, amused chuckle, the gap closing between them as Azrael approaches, offering a hand. Flug coldly rejects it, trembling as he stares dead into the man’s eyes. The hand remains extended, but the smile slowly melts back into a formal deadpan.

“Someone has to babysit the new recruits. I think you should be a little more grateful, Dr. Slys. If we’d been a minute later to respond, I don’t know what would have killed you first - The Phoenix, or your Leader’s pure _neglect_.”

Every muscle in Flug’s body tenses. His grip tightens slightly on his forearm, and his lips press together, jaw quivering. Azrael eyes him critically, his hand remaining extended a second longer, before finally folding his arms behind his back.

“... I suppose that’s in the past. I’m glad to see you up and well, Dr. Slys.”

Azrael’s tone drops to concern. It’s a voice that only alarms Flug more. He may be a hopeless _idiot_ , but he isn’t stupid enough to fall for this. He looks firmly in another direction, suddenly very interested in the peeling paint of the opposite wall. “How very thoughtful of you, Major,” he says quietly. “If you’ll excuse me, I--”

He slowly pulls himself away from the wall, turning to walk away. The progress is stopped by a strong grip on his arm, pulling him back. A jolt that goes through him leaves a pit in the bottom of his stomach. He turns, trembling to glare at the other man. “Get your hands off of me,” he growls, giving a particularly vicious yank to escape the man. Azrael remains firm - not forceful, but blisteringly intimidating. He keeps that firm tone of concern. Flug doesn’t know the motive for this, and that fact - unlike any intimidation this man has used before, _terrifies_ him.

“Dr. Slys, I have a job to do. You can make it a lot easier for me, and for yourself. Would you care to explain the state you were in when we arrived?”

A slight fog glazes over Flug’s mind, time slowing down as he races to process all the facts.

Flug has two choices.

A dam of emotions is prepared to burst, a perfect storm of opiates and fatigue he can blame it on as he releases the pressure in his chest, to justify a moment of weakness, of choked sobs. He can brandish newer scars, and lay himself bare, pleading they take him somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, _ANYWHERE_ but here. He won’t be a free man, certainly not. But he will at least, at the _very_ least be… liberated. They might even agree to take him to the same facility, undisclosed, where they’re keeping 5.0.5. He won’t have to keep worrying about an endless cycle of repeals and rejections.

… it sounds like a dream. Not because of it’s perfection ( _too incomplete, too lacking, too settled into compromise_ ), but because of it’s lucid inattainability.

He can’t think too much, he needs to answer, can’t dwell like that, not right now.

The other hand; the second choice.

He can lie. Through his teeth, through a different kind of lucidity. Can be the ever-obedient worker he’s supposed to be, obey every rule he’s learned about shutting out his emotions and doing what needs to be done. The man in front of him doesn’t really care anyhow. Why flay himself so openly, when he can just allow this hollowness of ages past to take him whole? ‘Bad habits’, he can say. ‘Lost track of meals’.

Will there be breakfast waiting downstairs? How much longer can he last?

“ _If_ I had an explanation,” he responds stoutly, giving a few false pulls before freeing his arm, “ _what_ makes you think I would owe it to you?”

“I implied no such thing,” responds Azrael, gruff as he folds his arms in front of him. “I’m not here to force you to say anything. It’s not as if ‘good behaviour’ is going to change your situation.”

“ _Precisely_ ,” Flug agrees, dusting himself off aggressively. “Which means, I believe, that this conversation is finished. You’ll be leaving soon, yes?”

Azrael does not look pleased. There’s a pronounced look of fatigue in his face, emphasized in those gaunt folds. Flug feels tired as well. Tired of being tested and poked at and analyzed, and he just wants to go to his room, see what the _hell_ the man has been up to in there, and go back to whatever it is he can piece together as some state of _normalcy_.

After a long moment of staring, analyzing, Azrael gives another grimace of disgust, leaning into the couple inches of difference to stare directly into Flug’s eyes.

“What do they see in you,” he sneers, “that I keep getting paid to waste my time like this?”

Finally - _finally_ , he walks away, radio buzzing as he speaks in short, curt commands to the newbie downstairs. Flug’s steps are slow, contemplative, until finally Azrael turns out of his sight, at which point he finally drops all dignity, scuttling into his room.

The door slams behind him, and he scrambles to turn on the light, panicked, pulling the bag a little tighter down around his head, trying to take deep breaths. Had he been keeping anything he wasn’t supposed to? The camera, yes, but that hadn’t been in his room. To his knowledge, past that, he hadn’t had anything worth hiding in awhile, and H.A.L.O. in turn had to have known that as well. There’d only be one reason they would have to send someone unsupervised into his room. If not to remove, then...

The room is messy, but no messier than he’d left it. Some upturned puzzles, but he’s too hazy to remember if they might have been disturbed during the frenzy of the other day. Admittedly, some things are pushed a bit out of their normal path, more piled towards the edge of the room. Flug does his best to track a general pattern to follow whatever trail Azrael has planted.

Everything draws suspicion. Every slightly upturned mess conjures a pacing of panicked self-questioning of whether or not it had been there before or after That Breakfast. A shattering of trust in his own sanctuary. And after tearing up his room, ripping drawers from their tracks, he’s left sitting alone, in the eye of a hurricane of disappointment; and all he has is the numbing expectation that it’ll eventually come once again crashing round his ears.

There’s the rickety feeling of a man about to fall apart. He can’t do it in here. The room has become stifling, a testament to too much pain. Flug is vaguely aware of the clock chiming noon as he heads downstairs. He pauses only slightly at the foot of the stairs, swearing he hears movement, wondering if H.A.L.O. is taking their sweet time to leave; it seems to be moving further away, however, and he continues on into the kitchen.

A mess greets him; pots and pans haphazardly placed round everywhere, and the kettle still hot, steam rising gently as he goes to pick it up. He hunts around, eventually finding the glass teapot he’d bought for Black Hat. The smooth surface, fragile and reflective, keeps his dazed attention for a moment; not only capturing his present, but seemingly his future and he stands once more in here.

He empties the kettle into the pot; he leans onto the counter, tired as he watches the tea bloom. How he can feel so tired, after having been out for so long? He blinks slowly, watching the reflection of lights and cars passing by the window. Then - movement behind him, the glint of predatory eyes in a shadow of a form.

Flug grips at the handle of the pot. When he turns around, he almost begins to laugh, delirious, at the thing, the ‘man’ frozen on the table, staring at him with hesitation. Sometimes, he can have more in common with a particularly feral cat than anything else he might so desperately try to imitate. Flug keeps his impressions to himself, however. In his own way, he too finds himself frozen, afraid to speak. The ceramic handle of the teapot is warm in his hand, and as he approaches the table to set it down, he sees Black Hat take an uneasy step back. Flug watches him, sympathetic, coaxing.

“... morning, _Jefecito_.”

Exhaustion seems piled upon him. Black Hat doesn’t respond, but his claws metaphorically retract, shoulders easing back with a gristly, crunching sound. Seeming to remember himself, he quietly steps down, off of the table and onto the chair, alighting himself back onto the ground. Flug has nothing else to offer, only sliding both of their cups to their appropriate spaces, as Black Hat settles into his chair, hands folded, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Pouring both of them some tea, Flug follows suit, feeling himself melt into his own seat. He lays his head down on his arms, sighing heavily as Black Hat picks up his cup, sniffing tentatively, about to open his mouth.

“‘Blooming Dreams’,” pipes Flug’s muffled voice from the table top. Black Hat’s jaw snaps shut, as Flug looks up lazily, chin resting on hs arms. “It’s a strawberry tea.”

He lifts his bag. With some heavy tilting, he takes the first sip, an example to be made that the concoction is to be trusted. Black Hat imitates him with a stilted formality.

Perhaps it’s just own Flug’s light high, cushioning the blow, but this. It’s the first peaceful breakfast they’ve had in… how long? He doesn’t want to ruin it by counting the days, putting a timer on this. He sits himself up, and for awhile, the kitchen is only filled quietly, blissfully with the sounds of tentative sips, ceramic thudding gently onto the table. Black Hat is the first to speak - the sound of his voice, that familiar gravel, is a chill of gooseflesh raised across his arm, soothing haunting.

“You’re looking… better.” It’s a begrudging sort of give. Indefinite. Flug has to take another thoughtful sip before responding.

“I… I guess I would? To be honest, I don’t. Entirely feel like it.” He laughs nervously to make light of his aches and nausea. “I feel like I --”

He pauses. He becomes uncomfortably aware of Black Hat’s focus on him. The man’s cup is resting solidly on the table, encased in both hands. And he stares. Terrifying, chilling, and absolutely unreadable. “-- like I lost a knife fight,” finishes Flug, giving another weak laugh, patting encouragingly at the table for the man to indulge in his joke. It isn’t granted, and Flug - god, he feels the moisture beginning to well up in the corners of his eyes, the overwhelming emotion. “Your tea is going to get cold,” he pleads of the man, desperate to keep moving, keep the conversation, the focus in motion. “Ah… you already ate, didn’t you? If not, I could cook something, I’m sure. I don’t want you to go hungry, _Jefecito_. After all, I’m-- I--,”

“ _Flug_.”

Flug falls obediently silent, bowing his head. His cup is held as still as he can possibly keep it, but the liquid inside ripples from the gentle shaking of his hand. He could stay like this for hours, days, if it was asked of him. Black Hat only waits at most a minute, before continuing.

“... do you fear me?”

A thread is plucked from Flug’s frayed sanity. The room, his head seems to sway. His cup lowers, clattering a little uneasily as he drops his hold, hands needed to brace his head into his hands, slumping onto the table. giving a light-headed, disconcerting sort of giggle. This question. Coming back, once more, building a lump of emotion in his throat, upon which he starts to choke.

“ _Flug_ ,” persists Black Hat with a sense of urgency. Flug doesn’t yet hear the anger, but anticipates it’s approach, like the crash of thunder after lightning’s spark. He stutters for a response, anything to appease, but can’t manage more than more warbled giggling.

“Do I…?! _Hah_ …!”

Another wheeze, as he begins to feel  as though he can’t breathe past the hysterics. He was barely out of the haze, and already the crushing tide of pressure was back upon him, suffocating, overwhelming. This isn’t his fault. He just needs patience. This wasn’t his fault, he just wants -- !

The table is jarred by sudden movement, Black Hat rising, Black Hat presumably preparing to pounce once more. Flug flinches, and the quick draw of activity has a sharp pain stabbing him through the chest, causing him to hiss lowly, trying to hold back a show of weakness. Black Hat moves towards him quickly towards him, and he’s braced to be grabbed, shaken, screamed at.

Whatever it is, though, that Black Hat had in mind, ceases. It takes a moment for Flug to catch up, to realize what’s happening. When he looks into the other man’s eyes, he looks almost bewildered over the pained, panicked breaths coming from Flug.

“... shirt.”

It’s a very curt, but clear command. Flug’s body slowly unfolds from it’s protective stance, returning the look of confusion. Black Hat doesn’t clarify, only crooking one claw in an irritable lifting gesture. Flug, horrified, puts his hands to the hem of his shirt, pausing in silent questioning. Black Hat only repeats the gesture with more urgency. “ _Shirt_ ,” he states again, irritable at having to repeat himself.

This is… unprecedented.

Flug’s face feels hot, and his brain vacant, startled from the panic attack, and jarred from the amount of processing required in questioning _what the fuck_ is happening. He takes the one option that requires the least thought - he lifts his shirt over his head. He’s a little clumsy, as he tries to get it off without taking away the bag. Another startled gasp escapes him, slightly shrill, as Black Hat already begins to put hands upon him, the touch unexpected in his temporary blindness.

… unexpected in. Well, in general, actually. He starts a sharp call of attention with the Demon’s name, and is cut off with a small, irritated growl that silences him. By the time he manages to pull the shirt off of him, the man is fixated upon a clinical sweep over the Doctor, his eyes (eye?) showing absolute focus, urgency, and…

… concern?

He certainly doesn’t seem to like Flug’s undergarment, giving a huff of distaste, as a claw pulls sharply at the low collar of it, to examine Flug’s stitches. He looks at Flug for a second, irritably, but says nothing before returning to what he’s doing. A professional sort of annoyance overtakes Flug at the nitpicking of his self-care. Why would Black Hat care? If anything, the support will assist healing - though he isn’t sure Black Hat has enough understanding of medical science to understand that. He supposes that to Black Hat’s limited scope, the binding would seem non-conducive and painful.

If so, however - is the annoyance a sign of concern for Flug’s _health_?

Silence overtakes both men, Flug unsure which question to pose, then agreeing that this is not the time for any of them. He waits for Black Hat to appease himself with whatever he feels he needs to know about Flug’s current state. Prepares himself for this to stop, and never be spoken of again.

There’s something. Intimate about this. Flug hasn’t had anyone this close to him in awhile, under any terms. His job hadn’t exactly left room for many relationships, nor has imprisonment. And even when he’d been in charge of his own healthcare, Flug had too little trust and knowledge of what a doctor could really _do_ to a human body to put himself under any kind of medical attention besides his own. He was a genius, after all, and prided himself as being the only Doctor he knew who could perform surgery on himself.

If you had told him that he would be in this situation, willingly ( _mostly_ ) putting his vitals this close to Black Hat, he would have laughed himself to tears.

( _then again, that would have been his reaction to most of what had happened in this past year._ )

He’s sensitive, chills running down the back of his neck with every too-close brush of fingers against his sides. Black Hat’s throat clicks irritably at the way the shudders disturb his work. Flug wordlessly responds by doing his best to remain frozen. This pleases Black Hat enough, that after a moment, his fingers pause.

He begins to speak.

“... I am. Not the man I once was, Flug.”

 

 

  
Despite the strangeness of this situation, Flug has enough wits about him to bite his tongue back from bitter confirmations of things he’d already known. Black Hat gives a low, contented purr in begrudging acknowledgment of Flug’s silent, barely minimal respect. “I am… compromised,” he continues to grunt, and Flug continues his exemplary behaviour of pretending not to notice the vulnerability present in that one, understated admission.

The stitches look fine, everything healing nicely. It’s the one thing H.A.L.O. could do well. An errant claw scratches just a little too hard over a raw edge, Flug’s muscles jumping, a low, pained groan escaping his throat. A chittering sound scrapes at his ears as Black Hat draws back, apprehensive. Another claw is quick to come back in, running soothing patterns against Flug’s arm, while Black Hat himself is held in suspension, awaiting assurance that he hasn’t carelessly worsened Flug’s condition. Only when both became conscious of the lull that has fallen between them do they separate, Flug feeling oddly short of breath, and Black Hat looking embarrassed, as he clutches at the lapels of his coat, minutely adjusting himself.

“... you were right.” That statement alone seems to pain him, disgust crossing his face. “Since the company has dissolved, I’ve had no plans or means to revive it. Not so long as Maria and her-- ” Another gruff noise, feral and bitter. “ -- her _chorus_ keep _hovering_.”

Black Hat turns, hands folding behind his back, wringing themselves in a way that almost seems anxious -  a peculiar thing to ascribe to the man. But as in everything else, he puts a vicious turn to it, a violence in the way he digs his own claws into this wrist, thirsting to maim. Flug watches him, watches the way the noon light washes over his sable skin. Slowly, Flug slides his shirt back on, before moving to the man’s side, the both of them staring wistfully towards the gate.

“... we are not sinking, Flug,” states he, darkly. “We are submerged.”

Something in Flug’s heart pangs, and he lookes to the floor. “... I’m sorry, sir,” he offers, quiet, mindless. Black Hat snorts dismissively.

“Don’t give me _sentiment_ , Flug. I’m not saying this for the sake of your _pity_.” He shakes his head thoughtfully. “I’m saying this because I need you to promise me something.”

When he turns to face Flug, his mouth is drawn into a grave line, the shadows much more pronounced at this angle. Carved creases in his face become more pronounced. He looks tired, in a way that Flug has never seen him look before.

“Anything,” Flug promises quietly, putting as much of his heart into it as he can. He can feel Black Hat tense, as if he can feel that last ounce of hesitation. Regardless, he continues.

“... promise me you’ll not make me suffer this alone.” He looks back towards the window, still turned in Flug’s direction. “And that you’ll not manipulate my _anger_ like that again.”

There’s knowing in the way that he growls, and there’s shame in the way Flug refuses to look at him. There is still more to say between them, but this is an openness Flug has never seen before. This is enough.

“I promise,” grants Flug quietly, meaning this a little more. “I’ll… I promise.”

The pact is set in a few moments of meaningful silence, before Flug turns in Black Hat’s direction, to stride towards the table. He pulls Black Hat’s chair back out for him, invitingly. “... your tea, _Jefecito_?”

Black Hat takes the invitation, sitting with a prim sort of dignity. He waits until Flug takes his own seat again, before raising his cup in toast. “ _To Maria_ ,” he growls mockingly. Flug gives a light, bitter laugh, before raising his own glass.

“To H.A.L.O. May we suffer together, right, _Jefecito_?”


End file.
